Five Great Charters
by Sanaryelle
Summary: Two thousand years before 'Sabriel', the Five Great Charters are put into the three bloodlines, the Wall, and the Great Stones. A legendary time in the history of the Old Kingdom.
1. Introduction

_Disclaimer: Ancelstierre, the Old Kingdom, and everything within them belong to Garth Nix._

**Five Great Charters**

_Five Great Charters knit the land_

_Together linked, hand in hand_

_One in the people who wear the crown_

_Two in the folk who keep the Dead down_

_Three and Five became stone and mortar_

_Four sees all in frozen water._

**Introduction**

Our story begins many centuries after Orannis was defeated, after Yrael was bound, and after the Seven first created the Charter. Charter magic has become a fundamental part of life in the Kingdom, and Charter Mages are in the flower of their knowledge and skill.

Despite this, many Free Magic beings still trouble the Kingdom.

Although Ancelstierre has just been founded, the Wall is not yet complete.

The powers of the Seven are waning, and they sense that it is time to leave the world – yet their powers are what sustain the Charter, and therefore must be passed on to ensure its continued existence.

Two of the Shining Ones have already departed. Decades ago, Dyrim gifted her powers to the present King's grandfather, making the Royal family the First Great Charter. Only three moons ago, Lord Abhorsen received the power of Saraneth, becoming the Second Great Charter. Five of the Seven remain.

We begin at the royal palace in Belisaere…


	2. The Clayr Saw Me

**The Clayr Saw Me**

_Darkness. Her eyes were cloaked in shadow, and she could hear nothing other than the rapid pounding of her heart._

_A flash of light! Orange sparks showered the edge of her vision as a resounding clang hummed through her ears. There was a piercing hiss, and waves of blistering steam scorched her face._

_Silence. A pair of hands rose out of the darkness: large, brown hands crisscrossed with burns and scars. And resting on those calloused palms was a sword. The innumerable Charter symbols that were etched along the blade flickered into life, golden light catching on the emerald in the pommel and making it sparkle._

_Another hand reached in and grasped the handle, but this one was bone-white. The pale hand ended at a deep blue sleeve, a sleeve embroidered with silver keys…_

Tirelle sat up, eyes snapping open. For a moment she panicked before realizing that she was safe in her bed. The sheets were tangled tightly around her body, and the woman realized with a shock that her hands were shaking. Hands… The dream came rushing back to Tirelle in a flash and she sprang into action, almost tripping over the blankets in her haste to rise. At once she pulled on a tasselled cord, and was just struggling into her robe when the servant entered.

"Lady Clayr?" he asked apprehensively, alarmed by her urgency.

"I must see the King at once!" Tirelle commanded, hastily dragging a comb through her long blonde tresses.

The servant blinked in confusion, then gave a short bow. "Of course, my Lady" he answered smartly, and a somewhat-groomed Tirelle followed him into the corridor.

Past the statues, around a corner, up some stairs, through a large hall… Her bare feet treaded the familiar path that ran from her bedroom to the King's. They did not engage in _that_ sort of relationship – despite rumours that buzzed through Belisaere's court – but it was understood that Tirelle's position required her to interrupt the King at strange hours of the night.

The armoured guards standing outside the King's chambers nodded at her solicitously, and she was led without delay into the antechamber. Within almost no time at all, another servant called for her to enter, and Tirelle stepped without hesitation into one of the most richly-furnished rooms in the Kingdom.

A massive desk dominated the space, carved with intricate designs and inlaid with gold wire and coloured glass. The room also contained an assortment of chairs, and overflowing bookcases. A man was bending over the stack of papers that littered his desk, a quill pen stuck haphazardly behind one ear. He looked up briefly as Tirelle entered, and motioned for her to take a seat. The blond woman waited impatiently for the King to finish, squishing her toes into the luxurious carpet, and at length the man pushed the papers away with a sigh.

King Berillan's copper hair was beginning to show signs of grey, but he held himself like a younger man, even at this late hour in the privacy of his rooms. Seated at his desk, surrounded by work, with his fingers smudged with ink and his tired face illuminated by candlelight, he still looked every inch a King. Those eyes never failed to notice anything, and showed an intelligence and dignity that commanded respect from everyone. Even his personal Seer.

"Lady Clayr", he said politely, a slight enquiring look in his gaze.

Tirelle did not waste any time with greetings. "I have had a vision, your Highness", she said quickly before the details would slip out of her mind. She was not anxious about being rude to the King, for he had become accustomed to her brisk manner from many years of her service. "It concerns… well, it concerns many", she finished somewhat lamely, wincing inwardly at her incompetent words.

King Berillan leaned forward and clasped his hands together on the desk. Tirelle stared at his signet ring, preferring that to meeting his keen gaze. "What did you see?" he asked quietly. After over a decade of being his Seer, Tirelle knew that the King could sense when she had something important to reveal.

The woman took a deep breath. "At first I saw… well, nothing", she admitted. "Then sparks, and the sound of metal on metal. The hiss of steam. After that – a pair of hands. Brown, worn hands holding a sword."

"Describe the sword", the King urged when Tirelle paused. The Seer licked her lips and continued.

"It was a magnificent weapon. Even I realized that, and I have never wielded a sword in my life. It had a green stone in the pommel, possibly an emerald. But the blade – the blade was covered in Charter marks, many of which I have never seen before. And then…"

The King waited for the woman to continue. When the silence had stretched for a whole minute, he gently prompted, "Yes?"

Tirelle looked up and pressed on. "I Saw another hand", she whispered, her voice barely audible. "A white hand, clothed in blue and silver. It reached in and clasped the sword."

King Berillan's expression did not change, but something flickered in his eyes. Tirelle knew that he understood the significance of that particular vision. There was nothing more to be said. Finally, the King pushed back his chair. "I think we both know what must be done", he sighed, rubbing his face wearily.

The blond woman looked up, frowning. "I See possible futures, your Highness", she said stiffly, "Not _the_ future." She knew that she was grasping at straws, and even worse, the King knew as well.

"The future you glimpsed here seems as good as any", the older man replied, a faint smile curving his lips. "According to your vision, Lord Abhorsen is soon to be gifted with a new weapon. And that weapon can be made by no other than the Wallmaker."

Tirelle crossed her arms over her breasts, trying and failing to hide her scowl. It was always that Abhorsen who was in the centre of things. Whenever he came to court – and that was a rare occasion, thankfully – the lords and ladies clamoured for his tales of fighting Free Magic creatures, and he happily obliged them. Tirelle could not understand it. All he did was wield sword and bells like any filthy necromancer, whereas she was the most gifted Seer in the Kingdom. And what recognition did she receive? None, other than whispers of illicit affairs and open suspicion of her power. Some of the courtiers thought her a witch, and that was one of the more complimentary labels.

"I know that you do not like him", the King remarked, a hint of wry humour in his deep voice. "But you are both very dear to me and the Kingdom."

"I never said that I did not like him", Tirelle protested huffily. "Whoever told you that?"

King Berillan quirked an eyebrow. "Nobody told me – I guessed", he chuckled. "You two got along tolerably until a few months ago."

"That is ridiculous!" scoffed Tirelle, striving to appear unconcerned. "I am not _jealous_ of him."

"I never said you were."

She blushed, realizing her mistake, and the King reached across to place a comforting hand on hers. "Do not fret", he said soothingly. "The Shining Ones know of your worth, and in that you are no less than he or I." The kindness in his voice brought burning tears unwillingly to the Seer's eyes.

"I am the Clayr!" she choked, barely managing to hold back her sobs. "The Clayr, the King's personal Seer, chosen from all citizens of the Kingdom! Why does the Charter run in _his _veins and not mine?" She gulped – there, she had said it. This was what most irked her about a certain young man nearly ten years her junior.

"Time is different to the Bright Shiners", King Berillan explained to her patiently. "It may take generations for them to make that decision. But make it, they will." He gave her hand a final comforting pat, and stood. "Until then, you are still the Clayr. And we must follow your visions, will we or no."

Tirelle bowed her golden head in both shame and acquiescence, before rising and curtseying deeply. "Good night, your Highness", she intoned.

"Good Night, Lady Tirelle", the King replied. He waited until the Seer had gone, then pulled on a tasselled rope. "Nalgon", he said to the servant who entered the room, "Get a message to Lord Abhorsen. He is to come to Belisaere at once."

The servant bowed and exited the room, and King Berillan sat at his desk. With a slight grimace, he pulled a sheaf of papers towards him, plucked the quill pen from behind his ear, and continued his work by candlelight.

_A/N: I have made "Clayr" the official title for the King's Seer. The Clayr is appointed by the King's council, chosen among the most gifted Seers in the land for this position. The Clayr (almost always female) is a high-ranking consultant who focuses her Sight on the workings of the Kingdom, like a sort of personal advisor. She lives permanently at the palace in Belisaere._


	3. Lord Abhorsen

_A/N: I forgot to put a disclaimer, so I'll just say that Garth Nix owns Ancelstierre, the Old Kingdom, and every person, structure, rock, and shrub within them. Oh, and big thanks to the Very Cool People who reviewed! Here's the next chapter; enter a new character!_

**Lord Abhorsen**

It was the hour before dawn. The creature watched his prey through the trees, gloating at his good fortune. People hardly came that way anymore, frightened by rumours of a dark being that pounced on travellers. He had even been given a name by the nearby villages: Zhagam, a name to instil fear in children and keep them from wandering into the woods.

Zhagam slithered over the forest floor, careful to avoid twigs and dried leaves. His body was shaped like a man's, but with a horribly elongated neck and limbs shrunken down to many-fingered stubs. Those fingers crawled insect-like over the soil, carrying Zhagam steadily closer to his victim. He was lucky – this spirit was strong, and would provide a great deal of sustenance. Zhagam grinned to himself, and flitted silently out from between the trees, quickly settling into the darkness of the path behind his prey.

He could follow travellers for hours like this, and they would be none the wiser. But Zhagam was hungry and in no mood for games. He opened his mouth, and a triple-forked tongue snaked out, darting for his victim's leg.

The hiss of a blade being drawn, and a flash of pain! Zhagam gave a piercing squeal as the tip of his barbed tongue was sliced off, dripping black blood onto the forest floor. He gaped up at his intended quarry, and was surprised to see a young man dressed in blue. The man wore the bells of a necromancer, and Zhagam grasped at this final hope. "I will serve you!" he shrieked, choking on his spurting tongue. "Master! Let me serve you, my Lord Necromancer!"

The young man reached for one of the bells even as he raised his weapon again.

"I am Abhorsen", he declared coldly. His black eyes showed no mercy. "I do not bring the Dead to Life, but send them to their rest. Tell that to all you pass on your way to the Ninth Gate."

Zhagam shrieked and gurgled as the sword was thrust through his body, pinning his writhing form to the ground. In the midst of horrible agony, the creature felt terror grip him when the sound of Saraneth thrummed through his bones, binding him to the ringer's will. He could only wail in defeat as Kibeth's pealing call sent him walking – walking back into Death, towards the Ninth Gate.

Abhorsen stared down at the distorted body, at the clusters of fingers that had finally ceased to quiver. After putting away Kibeth, he wiped his rusty sword with a handful of leaves and sheathed it. In retrospect he had not needed the sword – he could simply have turned around and rung Kibeth and Saraneth together. But he had yet to become comfortable with his newfound powers. Even he did not know his full potential, now that his blood had been graced by one of the Charters.

Turning, Abhorsen hitched the rolled-up tent higher on his back, and set off down the path again. Due to his work he travelled constantly, but that was not a problem as he'd never had a proper home. Hired by King Berillan to hunt the threatening Free Magic creatures, the young man inevitably had to trek all over the Kingdom.

His earlier work had been across the Wall, which at the moment was undergoing construction. After the Civil War a new country had been founded in the strange lands to the south. It had been named Ancelstierre, of which the King's brother was now Chief Minister. Prince Orrofin had been adamant that no magical beings of any sort would be welcome there. To Abhorsen it sounded like a pretty dull place, despite the Prince's talks of 'progressiveness' and 'modern technologia'.

But in obedience to his King, Abhorsen had spent five years in Ancelstierre banishing the few remaining Free Magic creatures, or failing that, driving them north. They were quite rare as Magic tended not to work the farther south one went, but Free Magic creatures anywhere were quite the nuisance, especially among superstitious Ancelstierrans.

Although the Wall was far from complete, the Wallmakers had constructed gates which prohibited the passage of any Free Magic being – he had no idea how they did this, but they were the Wallmakers. And now that his work was complete the whole mess of Free Magic things was contained within the Kingdom – or rather, the "Old Kingdom", as it was starting to be called by the Ancelstierrans. And whose job was it to clear up that mess? Abhorsen's, of course.

The young man frowned as he continued down the road, grumbling under his breath. He did not really mind his job. One thing you could say about it was that it was never dull. But a new threat had been growing: Necromancers.

A couple generations ago, a few rare people had discovered that they could walk into Death of their own free will. By imitating the songs of the Seven, with voices or instruments, these Free Magic sorcerers found that they could actually raise and control the Dead. However, they had not become a threat until very recently.

Abhorsen had once been a necromancer – but after swearing his allegiance, undergoing a late baptism, and training under Charter Mages in the King's employ, his previous trade had been forgotten. He was a faithful subject of the Kingdom, and he had a new vocation now. The persecution of Free Magic creatures had been carried out by the Seven following the Destroyer's defeat. That had been countless years ago; the power of the Seven was fading with time, and abominations were still to be found. The Wallmakers had created his bells in order to imitate their powers more effectively than voice or pipes.

And therein was the problem. In the past few years, some of the necromancers had managed to craft bells of their own, Free Magic corruptions of his tools of trade. These necromancers were starting to become more than a nuisance, raising formidable powers to do their will.

At the sound of hooves, the young man was jerked out of his memories. Soon two of the King's messengers came riding into view, easily identifiable due to their red tunics and the ridiculously large plumes that adorned their hats. The two riders pulled their mounts to a stop, horses rearing in a most spectacular fashion. Abhorsen had to resist the urge to roll his eyes at this flashy display; the King's messengers were chosen from amongst the younger members of the nobility, and considered themselves to be very important indeed. Abhorsen contented himself by reflecting that these two idiots would tremble in their boots if they ever faced a creature like Zhagam.

"Are you Lord Gabriel Abhorsen?" one of the messengers asked, panting as though he had run a marathon.

"Just Abhorsen", the young man answered. "Only my mother calls me Gabriel."

The messengers exchanged mystified looks, obviously wondering whether or not he was teasing them, but his solemn expression gave nothing away. "Very well", the first messenger continued. "Lord Abhorsen, you are hereby summoned by his Royal Highness, King Berillan the First, Ruler of –"

"Yes, yes", Abhorsen interrupted, waving a pale hand. "What does he want now?"

He received the brunt of two righteously indignant glares for this discourtesy, but Abhorsen had faced the fiery stare of a Mordicant more than once. This was nothing in comparison.

"King Berillan requests your immediate presence at Belisaere", the second messenger said stiffly.

Abhorsen sighed – another long journey. Wonderful. "Did he say why?" he asked, barely managing to hide his exasperation.

The second messenger narrowed her eyes. "The Clayr has had a vision, one which concerns you – my Lord", she added grudgingly.

Abhorsen overlooked the rudeness in her tone. This was an unexpected development, and no mistake. "The Clayr… that would be Tirelle?" he mused, half talking to himself.

"_Lady_ Tirelle", emphasized the first messenger. "And yes, she is still the Clayr." A slight sneer lifted his upper lip. "You thought that another would have taken her place by now? She is no more than five and thirty, and there are none to match her Sight in the Kingdom."

"Is she still popping out children?" the young man grinned, and the two messengers stared at him in shock. The first messenger spluttered with impotent fury, and the other blushed, face clashing with her crimson tunic. Apparently judging that staying any longer would soil their reputations, the riders wheeled their horses around and galloped off in a spray of dirt and leaves.

Abhorsen was not sorry at all to see them go, but he was quite sorry to see their horses go. If they were so keen to get him to Belisaere, why hadn't one of them offered their mount to him? With a slight shake of his dark head, the young man turned his steps east off the forest path. If he reached the road that passed through Orchyre, perhaps a cart would pick him up and take him to the capital city. As he trudged through a dew-sprinkled meadow, the golden sun rose before him, dazzling his eyes and throwing a long shadow in his wake.

_A/N: I have made "Abhorsen" the surname of a noble family, of which Gabriel is the only surviving member. The silver key on blue was their coat of arms. Gabriel was a necromancer since his youth, and in his early twenties was hired by the King. Hope this makes sense! Reviews welcome!_


	4. Questions of Power

_A/N: Thanks for the reviews – it's good to know that some people find this interesting, and not just me! Some info on ages: the King is in his forties, Tirelle is thirty-five, and Abhorsen is in his late-twenties, to give you a rough idea. Now we'll find out a little more about Charter magic…_

**Questions of Power**

King Berillan reclined in his chair, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his face. Across from him sat Abhorsen, who had elected to move his seat beneath the silken canopy. His pale skin burned easily, and he naturally preferred darker, colder conditions. But the sea was calm today, and so Berillan had challenged the young man to a game of Druque on the sunny deck of the ship.

Abhorsen's white fingers hovered over the Nobleman, then moved to pick up the Fisher. Berillan raised an eyebrow at the unusual move, but made no comment.

"I have a question", Abhorsen said finally, keeping his voice light and conversational.

Berillan had been wondering when the young man would speak. He moved his Soldier three squares. "Ask away", he answered, interlocking his fingers.

Abhorsen's shoulders tensed. "How do you… you know", he said rather weakly, and the King resisted the urge to chuckle. "What I mean to say", the young man persisted, "Is that I've had the power of the Charter in my blood for three moons now. And I still haven't… I am not yet…"

"You are not quite accustomed to it?" King Berillan suggested and the other man nodded, looking down at his hands. The King leaned forward, forcing Abhorsen to meet his gaze. "It has been many years since the Bright Shiner Dyrim poured all of her power into my grandsire's blood", he said gently. "It has been diluted by generations, but is still extraordinarily strong. I can only imagine what it must feel like to you, with all of the strength of a Shining One forced into a single person."

"I am… afraid of it", the young man murmured, as if anxious not to be overheard. "I am ignorant of the limits to my power, yet I fear to test it." In an attempt to hide his embarrassment, Abhorsen picked up his Mage and moved it one square over. It was a bad move.

"Perhaps you will never need to test your limits", the King replied softly, trying to calm the young necromancer. "Saraneth was one of the most powerful of the Seven. You will never struggle to perform even the most demanding of Charter spells. Yet it is always a good idea to know the full extent of your abilities." He lowered his gaze to the Druque board, giving the young man some privacy.

Abhorsen glanced to either side before lowering his voice. "It is not only that", he whispered. "I find that – that I can still use Free Magic."

King Berillan was shocked into silence, and could only stare at the younger man. Finally, he gathered his wits. "You mean that you are able to use Free Magic and still access the Charter?" he asked, astonished. Abhorsen nodded. The King sat back in his chair, his strength having left him all at once. "Impossible", he breathed to himself. "You must be the only Charter Mage who can do that."

"I am", Abhorsen confirmed miserably. "But – but you have no idea what it is like! On the one hand there's the Charter – warm, bright, beautiful – yet complex. And on the other, there's the straightforward, fierce power of Free Magic, tainted and consuming. Every time I reach into the Charter, there is the other choice hanging within my reach, tempting me."

"You resist it?" Berillan asked, a little sharper than he intended.

The young man gave a vehement nod. "I have, so far. It is difficult, due to my years as a necromancer. But the power of the Charter is strong enough to keep me from turning back to Free Magic. I do not worry about losing _myself _to it."

King Berillan frowned, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "You worry about your descendants", he intuited.

Abhorsen gave a tight smile. "Dyrim and Saraneth wished for their power to be passed on through blood, and you yourself observed that the strength of the Charter slowly thins with each generation. How can an Abhorsen banish the Dead once his inherent power is relatively weak, and Free Magic awaits him at every decision?"

The King stared at the younger man, frankly surprised by his insightful words. Apparently there was more to Gabriel Abhorsen than many gave him credit for. "Well", he answered finally, "You will just have to trust in the strength of your children." He bent forward, and his Soldier took Abhorsen's Fort. "My game."

The young man stared down at the board, and scowled. Berillan laughed and arose, beckoning for Abhorsen to follow him. They walked to the starboard railing and the King motioned at the shore. "The Ratterlin Delta", he proclaimed. "We are getting closer."

A sudden bang caused them to turn in time to see Tirelle stalk onto the deck, obviously in a bad mood. She caught sight of the two men and strode purposefully over to them. Berillan felt Abhorsen cringe, and wished that he could do the same – but Kings did not cower at the approach of their Clayr. Even if she was Tirelle.

"Have we arrived yet?" the Seer demanded, green eyes blazing like witchfire. She was a rather small woman, and yet had the power to reduce the largest man to a quivering ball of fear. Berillan knew; he had seen it happen.

The King refrained from pointing out that they were still sailing and, as such, had not yet reached at their destination. "We are nearly there, Lady Tirelle", he answered courteously. He found it always worked to be gentle with this Clayr. "Horses await us onshore just south of the delta."

The blond woman made a face. "Horses?" she repeated.

"What, you don't like to ride?" enquired Abhorsen, his voice deceptively innocent. But he hastily ducked his head when the Clayr turned to glower at him. Berillan watched the two of them fondly. They were the only people besides his family who did not treat him like a King, and he found it most refreshing. Never mind that one of them could scare him half out of his wits and the other contained enough Charter Magic to obliterate Belisaere.

They were drawing closer to the shore, and an uncomfortable silence had fallen between them. The King caught Abhorsen's eye, and the young man took the hint. "So, Lady Tirelle", he began awkwardly, "How are your daughters?"

The Seer jerked her head in surprise, but recovered her composure admirably. "They are well", she answered. "And your wife?"

"I'm not married", Abhorsen mumbled crossly. King Berillan had to work hard to suppress his smile – this was a frequent point of dispute, for who would wed a man who banished the Dead for a living? "You were never married either", the young man remarked, and Berillan resisted the urge to smack Abhorsen upside the head.

"That is correct", said the Clayr testily, warning clear in her voice.

Any intelligent man would have changed the subject, but then King Berillan had never numbered Gabriel among the most intelligent in his employ. Also, the young man was still smarting from the allusion to his being a bachelor. "But you still have children", Abhorsen pressed, apparently intent on being murdered within the next ten minutes. "How many do you have now, Lady? Last time I was at Belisaere, you were graced with four little girls."

"I have six daughters now", the woman growled. It was a well-known controversy within court that the unmarried Lady Tirelle had mothered so many children, and all by different fathers.

King Berillan decided to step in before one of the young people threw caution to the winds and slew the other. "We are approaching the shore", he remarked mildly, and noted with amusement the abashed looks on their faces at having been caught quarrelling. "Let's gather our things and meet back here on deck."

Tirelle turned and flounced off, and Berillan pulled Abhorsen aside. "Whatever you do, do not tease the Clayr", he whispered furtively.

The young man scoffed. "I am not afraid of her" he declared, lying through his teeth.

"You should be", warned the King. "Lady Tirelle holds everyone's fate in her hands. Suppose she claimed that she had Seen me ordering your execution? What then?"

Abhorsen gulped. "Ah", he said weakly. "Point taken."

The King smiled. "Be nice to her", he said, feeling as though he was lecturing a child.

The young man nodded sullenly. "Oh, I'll be nice." As he sauntered off, King Berillan couldn't help but wonder whether or not the Abhorsen was being sarcastic.

_A/N: Tirelle was born in a northern village close to what will become the Clayr's Glacier, so she's accustomed to travel by skis and sledge, not horseback! Her fellow villagers recognized her gift of Sight and sent her to Belisaere, where she was chosen among many to succeed the previous Clayr. Reviews, as always, are welcome!_


	5. The Wallmaker Made Me

**The Wallmaker Made Me**

A dozen horses approached the Wall from the northeast. To Tirelle, who had never seen the famous Wall before, it was quite an impressive sight. The Wall stood about eight feet high, and was still far from complete. It stretched as far as she could see, reaching through the forest like a ring encircling the land. A string of huts and forges had been set up along its considerable length, as if a village had sprung up beside the Wall – a village inhabited by the Wallmakers and their families.

The horsemen came to a stop, and Tirelle slid clumsily from the horse's back. She had ridden behind the King, having utterly refused to get on the back of one of those beasts unaccompanied. King Berillan and Abhorsen dismounted much more gracefully, and the three of them walked into the village.

Children were running barefoot through the dirt, playing tag or chasing mangy dogs, while the adults carried out their daily chores. Many of these people wore brown leather vests falling down to their knees, with a trowel embroidered on the left breast. These were the Wallmakers, men and women of all ages, and they were occupied in the most fascinating things. Several were working at forges, crafting weapons and armour. One Wallmaker sat at a loom weaving a cloth of Charter marks. Workbenches were set up in the sun with all sorts of strange weapons and toys lying upon them half-completed.

At their approach, the Wallmakers paused in their work. Several jumped up to bow or curtsey when they recognized the King.

A young man stepped towards them cautiously. Tirelle saw that he and several others had been clustered around a table, looking at complicated diagrams of the Wall. The trowels embroidered on all of their vests were silver, and Tirelle wondered if this indicated a higher rank. "May I help you, your Majesty?" he asked hesitantly.

"Yes", King Berillan smiled. "I am here to see the Wallmaker."

The young man bowed his head. "Of course." He beckoned them with a small motion, and turned to walk through the village. They made their way among the kilns and worktables, until finally coming to a wooden building considerably larger than the huts. The young Wallmaker opened the door and stood aside for them to enter.

Tirelle blinked as she stepped through the door, momentarily disoriented by the sudden brightness. The light was cast by dozens of Charter marks hovering near the ceiling.

The room they had entered was a workshop, holding an enormous workbench, and a forge at one end. It was filled with evidence of the Wallmaker's trade: every available surface was covered in tools, half-finished objects, and pieces of parchment with designs and Charter marks scribbled on them. There were shelves upon shelves of what looked like toys and sports equipment; one entire wall had been devoted to weapons of all kinds; on a stand in the corner was a beautiful set of gethre armour; and many scattered objects were unidentifiable, due to their partially-constructed state.

Two doors led off this main room, one into what Tirelle could see was a simple bedroom. The other door suddenly opened, and a woman strode through. She was tall and strong, with chocolate-brown skin, and wore her long leather vest over a simple woollen dress. The embroidered trowel was done in gold thread.

As the woman came closer, Tirelle noted that her face was slightly lined, her black hair streaked with grey, and her hands… her hands! Tirelle stared as she recognized those scarred and calloused palms from her dream. This was the woman who was to make the Abhorsen's sword!

The woman took them all in with a quick glance, before nodding at the young Wallmaker who hovered at the doorway. "Thank you, Felio." When he had left, she turned to her three visitors. "I am acquainted with your Majesty", she said with a faint smile, "But to whom else do I owe the honour?"

Berillan grinned back, and motioned at his companions. "This is Lady Tirelle, the Clayr of the Kingdom. And this is Lord Abhorsen."

The Wallmaker inclined her head. "Strong Charter Mages both", she noted. "My name is Ghidreth, and I am head of the Wallmakers guild. If someone speaks of _the _Wallmaker, they speak of me. Welcome to my forge."

She clapped her large hands, and four twisted pieces of metal lying on the ground unravelled and assembled themselves into chairs. They all sat down, Tirelle rather gingerly – what if the chair curled up on itself again? Ghidreth smiled at her apprehension, and turned to the King. "What may I do for you?"

Berillan looked at Tirelle, who cleared her throat nervously. "Quite recently I had a vision that concerns both you and Lord Abhorsen", she said slowly. "I discussed it with the King, and we decided the vision meant that you were to forge a sword for him."

The Wallmaker and Abhorsen stared at her at this revelation. The young man's hand unconsciously moved to the hilt of the rusty sword at his side, but he said nothing. Finally, Ghidreth leaned forward. "A Charter blade?" she asked.

As Tirelle nodded her head, she felt a prickling feeling come over her, and her tongue spoke of its own accord: "Abhorsen will pass his name and duty on down through his blood. His family will become crucial in maintaining the rule of the Charter. A sword is to be forged, a sword that will last for millennia, used by all Abhorsens to battle Free Magic and to slay those already Dead."

Tirelle blinked as the Sight faded from her. The King was staring at her, and Abhorsen looked to be in a state of shock. The Wallmaker, however, merely raised an elegant eyebrow. "I see", she said with remarkable calm, as if her guests frequently made prophecies in her home. "And I am to forge this sword?" Tirelle nodded mutely. Ghidreth smiled. "So let it be done."

The Wallmaker rummaged through the mess on the workbench, and eventually unearthed a blank piece of parchment and a quill pen. "Tell me everything you can about the sword", she said.

Tirelle tried to recall every detail of the dream, but stumbled due to her ignorance of weaponry. The King helped her, but Abhorsen soon grew bored with the whole thing, and got up to explore the room.

"Look at this!" he suddenly cried. He was examining a Druque board. "The pieces are stuck", he remarked.

The Wallmaker looked up from the parchment. "They move at your spoken command", she said smoothly. "It keeps the pieces from falling off the board when moved."

"I believe that is all I can recall", Tirelle said, motioning at the parchment.

Ghidreth nodded "It is enough." She glanced at Abhorsen. "Would you like to see my newest invention?"

The Wallmaker led her three visitors over to the other end of the bench, where a covered basket stood next to a wooden flute. She lifted the flute to her lips, and a haunting melody came out of it. Tirelle watched, transfixed, as the lid of the basket started to move. Finally it toppled away, and a shining snake rose up. It had scales of many different colours, and eyes of sapphire. The snake swayed in time to the music, seeming to obey the flute's command.

When it sank back into the basket, Abhorsen tentatively reached out and touched the snake. "It's made of metal!" he gasped.

"Yes, with inlay for the colours", confirmed Ghidreth. "Quite a simple construction, but it took me a good hour or so to link all of the scales together. Charter marks key it to the music of this flute, so that it doesn't crawl out of the basket whenever someone sings."

"Amazing", Tirelle breathed.

King Berillan nodded. "Most impressive. And utterly useless." But he was smiling.

Ghidreth grinned back at him playfully. "Not everything we make is as valuable as the Wall, your Majesty", she said. "We are working as hard as we can, but it will be finished after your time."

Berillan nodded in easy acceptance. "So long as it is finished."

"We need more Wallmakers", the woman said simply, placing the flute back down next to the basket. "I am thinking of sending out more recruiters, but there aren't that many Charter Mages with the particular gifts we require."

"You mean a talent for working spells on inanimate objects?" Abhorsen guessed.

Ghidreth bowed her head in accord. "Yes. Just as the King's power is in command, the Clayr's is in Sight, and yours is in banishing the Dead." She sighed, but then seemed to come to herself. "What am I chattering on about? You three must stay and dine with us, along with all of your guard. The Wallmakers will all be pleased to have you – we do not get many visitors."

She moved to the door, adding over her shoulder, "Tomorrow I will prepare to forge the weapon."

_A/N: The Wallmakers are a guild of Charter Mages hired by subjects of the Kingdom to make magical constructions. The reason for their original founding, and their biggest project, is the Wall. It was commissioned by the King and his brother to keep both Free and Charter Magic out of Ancelstierre. A line of huts and forges are set up all along the length of the Wall, with the Wallmaker Ghidreth living at the easternmost end._


	6. The King Quenched Me

_A/N: I had to research ancient sword-forging for this chapter!_

_prisoner24601 – Thanks for reviewing! I took the numbers in the rhyme to mean the order in which each Charter was made (King first, Abhorsen second, and so on). The identities of each Bright Shiner were inspired by the scene in _Abhorsen_ where Orannis is bound again; I thought Saraneth was most appropriate for the Abhorsen bloodline. Also remember that Kibeth was not in fact one of the Five. She and Astarael were the two Bright Shiners who left some remnant of themselves behind after making the Charter. I agree that the rhyme is quite cryptic, and can be interpreted many ways!_

**The King Quenched Me**

Five people gathered in the Wallmaker's house after breakfast the next morning. Besides Ghidreth and her assistant, there was the King, the Clayr, and Lord Abhorsen. Berillan thought that a more illustrious gathering had never taken place, although the surroundings were humble.

Ghidreth buckled a heavy belt over her leather vest, and tied back her long wavy hair with a kerchief. Felio, the young Wallmaker, was also present to assist her.

"How many swords have you made in your life?" Abhorsen asked nervously, obviously worried about how experienced this woman was. Berillan smiled to himself; the Wallmaker was easily the most talented blacksmith in the Kingdom and Ancelstierre combined.

The Wallmaker smiled at the young man's question. "I have made ten times as many blades as you have years", she said. She pointed a long finger at the wall of weapons, and King Berillan turned to admire a pair of gleaming shortswords. Charter blades, he could see. "I completed those but two days ago", Ghidreth told the young Lord. "Don't worry, Abhorsen. Your weapon will be incomparable."

Felio, the young Wallmaker, set down a long bundle on the workbench. Ghidreth opened the cloth to reveal several billets of unworked metal. With an experienced hand she sorted through them, finally choosing four strips of wrought iron and four strips of steel. "Your sword will be pattern-wielded", she explained as she separated the pieces of metal. "That means using more than one type of metal. Much more difficult to make, but your blade will be the stronger for it."

The Wallmaker placed two strips of iron and two strips of steel in alternating layers as Felio lit the forge with a casually-cast Charter mark. With the young man at the bellows, Ghidreth placed the coals expertly with a pair of tongs, so as to have the right amount of heat. With a bit of magic, and sooner than King Berillan had thought possible, the fire was roaring with such intensity that the onlookers had to back away. Lady Clayr and Lord Abhorsen looked especially ghostly, faces lit by the wavering orange light.

They watched silently as the layers of metal were softened in the searing heat. When Ghidreth judged the colour to be right, she removed the metal from the forge and stretched the molten bar out to length. Before the metal cooled, Ghidreth and Felio cast a swift series of Charter marks for strength, which swam through the bar like tiny golden fish.

The bar was placed in the fires again, and once soft, Ghidreth removed it from the heat. She skilfully twisted it, much like the cinnamon twists Berillan had been so fond of as a child. The Wallmaker held out her scarred and calloused palm, and Felio handed her a massive iron hammer. Raising the tool high, the Wallmaker struck the twist of metal with practiced motions, the harsh sound ringing throughout the room.

Berillan had always known that this woman was a lot stronger than she looked, but the shocked expression on young Abhorsen's face was simply priceless.

Ghidreth beat away, slowly moulding a square bar. Between each strike, either she or Felio cast a different Charter Mark, several of which Berillan had never seen before in his life. Those he did recognize were marks for accuracy, power, lightness, and precision. The marks soaked into the beaten metal, gliding over the surface in a shimmering cloud.

Once the bar was finally beaten into shape, the two Wallmakers paused to sip some water. "This is going to be a _very_ long day", Ghidreth remarked wryly. "I may have to work all through the night, as well."

The two Wallmakers returned to work, repeated the entire process with the remaining four strips of metal: they placed the iron and steel in alternating layers, drew it out to length, and twisted it. This time, Ghidreth twisted the metal in the opposite direction before hammering it into an identical square bar. Berillan tried to pay close attention when Ghidreth and Felio cast their Charter marks, but he still had trouble recognizing most of them.

"Have you ever seen magic like this?" Tirelle whispered to him as they watched.

The King shook his curly head. "No, I have not. Amazing, isn't it?"

Several hours had already passed, and yet the work was far from over. Ghidreth had made the entire process look so simple, but Berillan knew that long years of experience were involved in knowing precisely what temperature to heat the metal to, how fast to heat it, and how exactly to hammer it into the appropriate shape. And that wasn't even counting the numerous Charter spells that had been performed. Watching Wallmakers at work made even being a King look easy.

As if thinking along the same lines, Abhorsen muttered, "Glad I'm not a Wallmaker. I'd take a Stilken any day."

They stopped for lunch, and Abhorsen examined the two square bars. As he turned them over in his pale hands, King Berillan was surprised to see that the Charter marks responded to the necromancer's touch. Ghidreth noticed as well, and told the young man, "They feel the power of the Charter in you."

Berillan glanced quickly at Tirelle. The King sighed when he saw the scowl twisting his Seer's pretty face. Not for the first time he wished that one of the Bright Shiners would just hurry up and give the Clayr some power, if only to resolve this childish resentment. It was like trying to reconcile two extremely competitive children.

After lunch, the Wallmaker welded the two bars together, before welding another strip of steel down the sides and across the tip. Berillan knew this would give the weapon its cutting edge. Further Charter marks of sharpness and slashing were cast. They were left with a long bar of magic-infused steel that had yet to be worked into a swordblade.

Felio worked the bellows again, and as they waited for the bar to soften, Ghidreth approached Abhorsen. "I need some of your blood", she explained calmly, drawing a dagger from her belt. The young man gaped at her for a moment before coming to his senses, and obligingly cut open his palm.

Ghidreth soaked up the crimson liquid in a cloth. When Felio placed the red-hot bar on the anvil, she squeezed out three drops, which sizzled as they fell onto the scorching metal. The Wallmaker took up her hammer once more to beat the bar into what they could eventually recognize as a blade.

After the shape had been moulded to Ghidreth's satisfaction, a groove was fullered down the centre of the blade by the two Wallmakers.

"Is that the blood gutter?" Abhorsen asked, unable to keep quiet any longer.

"Yes", Ghidreth answered. "A common misconception. Its true purpose is to strengthen and lighten the blade." The young Lord looked abashed at not knowing this, and King Berillan gave him a reassuring smile.

They watched as Ghidreth carefully filed away the hammer marks, and then shielded their eyes as she polished the blade further on a grindstone, sending orange sparks in every direction. Beside the King, Tirelle let out a soft gasp.

"What is it?" Berillan asked in an undertone.

"Orange sparks", the Seer explained. "From my vision."

The King placed his hand on her shoulder. "It must be strange", he remarked, "Seeing things for the second time.

Tirelle gave a wan smile. "You have no idea."

"Now", said the Wallmaker loudly, causing them all to jump, "All that remains – besides the final sharpening – is for the blade to be hardened and tempered. Your Majesty, if you please."

King Berillan stepped forward, unsure of what he would be asked to do, and watched Felio heat the blade to a cherry red. Ghidreth indicated a barrel of brine that stood innocuously by the forge. "Quench the sword", she whispered to him.

The King accepted the proffered tongs, and plunged the scarlet blade into the water. Steam hissed and crackled, billowing up from the barrel in white clouds that obscured everything. Berillan's face was scorched by the heat, but he resolutely held the sword under the brine until the steam had cleared away, leaving a burning smell in its wake. But this wasn't the corrupted reek of Free Magic; it was cleaner, somehow.

As Ghidreth placed the weapon carefully on a rack to cool, the door opened and the evening meal was brought in by a young Wallmaker. She looked positively terrified by all of the powerful people in the room, and her hands shook as she set down the tray. The trowel on her vest was embroidered in white thread, and Berillan guessed that this symbolized the lowest level of Wallmakers. When their frightened server had left, King Berillan asked Felio about it.

"A white trowel is for the Apprentices", the young Wallmaker confirmed. "When they are done their apprenticeship, their vest is embroidered with a yellow trowel. This signifies the rank of Craftsman. Silver trowels indicate Masters, and of course, the Wallmaker has a gold trowel."

The blade had completely cooled by the time they were finished eating. Ghidreth polished the blade carefully. "The handle must be bound", the Wallmaker explained to them as she worked. "I need to set the pommel stone, and also make the scabbard. It will take all night, but you three may go to bed."

Berillan suddenly realised that he was extremely tired, which was rather surprising since he had done nothing but quench the blade. He did not know how for long they had watched the forging of Abhorsen's sword, but it was certainly late. Ghidreth had performed in a day what would take most blacksmiths weeks.

Stifling a yawn, the King held the door open for a drowsy-looking Tirelle. But Lord Abhorsen remained in his seat by the workbench. "I'll stay", he said firmly.

_A/N: The pair of shortswords on the wall are Touchstone's weapons, by the way!_


	7. Yrael

_A/N: Enter my favourite character! The title says it all._

**Yrael**

In the morning, Tirelle and King Berillan crossed the threshold of the Wallmaker's home. The Clayr smiled when she saw Abhorsen asleep in his chair. He was sprawled most ungracefully, mouth slightly open, and snored softly. Where was a painter when you needed one?

The Wallmaker Felio was cleaning equipment, and nodded in welcome. "The sword is finished", he told them in an undertone so as not to wake the young Lord. "The Wallmaker is putting some last protective spells on it."

As if summoned, Ghidreth came through a door that led into one of the back rooms. Something wrapped in a blue cloth was tucked under her arm. Tirelle froze at the sight, and a shivering wave of premonition swept over her. The King gently shook Abhorsen, who sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He got to his feet, tugging at his blue and silver surcoat in an attempt to make himself look more presentable.

Nobody spoke as Ghidreth put the bundle down on her workbench and drew aside the cloth. She turned, and lying across her calloused brown palms was the magnificent sword from Tirelle's dream. The innumerable Charter symbols that were etched along the blade flickered into life, golden light catching on the emerald in the pommel and making it sparkle.

Abhorsen reached out tentatively with his pale hand and grasped the handle. He tilted the sword, and Tirelle could see a flash of writing on the shining blade. "The Clayr Saw me", the young lord read slowly. "The Wallmaker made me. The King quenched me. Abhorsen wields me." He reached out with his bandaged hand, white fingers lightly brushing the words before they faded. "It is beautiful", he said softly.

Felio stepped forward, and offered the tooled sword-belt and scabbard with a slight bow. Abhorsen removed his patched old belt and brown leather scabbard, which held his chipped and rusty sword, and buckled on the new one. He sheathed the Charter blade smoothly, and Tirelle had to admit that the weapon really did belong at his side.

A sudden banging sound caused everyone to jump about a foot into the air. "What was that?" Tirelle demanded, eyes turning automatically to a small door in the back of the room.

"That?" Ghidreth asked in an innocent tone that fooled no one. "That was the sound of a… a guest of mine, I suppose."

The King tilted an eyebrow, a smile twitching his lips. "You keep your guests locked up, do you?" he asked, laughter in his voice.

The Wallmaker sighed irritably and threw up her hands. "All right, come along." She strode over to the door and wrenched it open with a flourish, bowing them all through with exaggerated courtesy.

Tirelle followed the King into the small room. The first thing she noticed was that it was quite dark, and was lit by a bluish-white light. She blinked, and realized that the light was coming from a strange man-like figure sitting inside a large square cage against the wall. But this cage was unlike any other that Tirelle had seen. For one, it was made completely of bronze. For another, it was saturated with Charter marks. The ones that she could identify were strong spells of binding and shielding.

She felt the King place a hand on her shoulder to draw her away from the cage. Whatever the thing was inside, it was very dangerous.

Lord Abhorsen broke the silence. "Who are you?" he demanded, addressing the shining figure directly.

The thing tilted its head up, and Tirelle found herself looking into a pair of flashing green eyes. It opened its mouth and hissed, but said nothing.

Ghidreth moved to stand beside the cage. "This is a Free Magic creature", she explained. "A prisoner of the Seven. They kept him bound with their own strength, but when they chose to start to leave this world they put him in my care. Before he was known as Yrael, but his old name carries power, and we have to call him something else."

"My niece named him Mogget when she saw him", Felio remarked dryly from the doorway. "She thought he was some sort of pet. Of course, he was in a different form, then."

"You mean he can change shape?" Tirelle gasped.

The thing – Mogget, she supposed he must be called – looked up at her, and suddenly an enormous white tiger was standing within the cage. It opened its mouth, dagger-like fangs bared, and _roared_, and Tirelle stumbled back across the room.

"Mogget!" the Wallmaker said sharply. The tiger turned its green gaze on the other woman before deliberately turning his back in what was a blatantly dismissive gesture. "He can be difficult", Ghidreth explained with a sigh. "I have created spells to control him, but it would involve binding him to a person. As you can imagine, there haven't been many volunteers."

The Wallmaker continued to speak, but Tirelle found that Ghidreth's voice was fading. Images sprang unbidden into her mind. She saw flashes of moments – countless moments with this creature in a bound form, serving a multitude of different people. And these various people all wore the blue and silver of Lord Abhorsen's bloodline. She saw Mogget as a falcon alighting on the arm of a handsome young man. She saw Mogget as a dwarf fighting beside an aged Abhorsen against a necromancer. She saw Mogget as a cat sitting with a woman in a strange flying device. She saw Mogget, unbound, advancing upon a girl with a bloody nose…

"Lady Clayr? Tirelle?"

The Seer opened her eyes, and found herself sprawled on the ground surrounded by concerned faces. "I saw him", she breathed. Ignoring the murmurs of bewilderment and concern, she sat up. "I saw that Mogget creature. He was serving the descendents of Lord Abhorsen."

Everyone turned their eyes to the young necromancer, who appeared to be just as baffled as the rest of them. He looked from Tirelle to the tiger pacing restlessly in its cage, and back to the Seer again.

Ghidreth was the first to recover. "If bound to your blood, he could make a valuable servant", the Wallmaker said neutrally, as if this sort of thing happened all the time. "Will you take him, Lord Abhorsen?"

The young lord gulped. "Lady Clayr Saw this sword", he whispered, placing a white hand on the pommel stone. "I will trust her visions in this."

"Very well." The Wallmaker walked over to the cage. "Mogget", she said clearly, "Lord Abhorsen has agreed to take you into his service. Will you accept?"

"I will not!" the creature replied, flesh swirling back into his Free Magic form.

Ghidreth leaned her head closer to the bronze bars. "If you do not volunteer", she said sweetly, "We will need to bind you."

"Of course I will not volunteer!" the Mogget grated. "Who would volunteer to serve a thoughtless young half-wit?"

Abhorsen frowned and opened his mouth to say something, but King Berillan stopped him with a hand on his arm.

From her finger, the Wallmaker removed a silver ring. Tirelle admired its sparkling diamond. She watched as Ghidreth drew her dagger, and extended it for the second time in two days to Abhorsen. The young lord did not wait for instructions, and pricked his finger on the tip. Ghidreth allowed a single drop to drip onto the diamond. When the liquid dribbled away Tirelle saw that the gem had absorbed the colour, and was now the deep red of a ruby.

The Wallmaker extended the ring towards Mogget, who was looking at it suspiciously. "Yrael", Ghidreth said loudly. "I bind you, with this ring, and by the Charter, to serve Lord Abhorsen. You are forced into flesh, and are to take no form capable of overpowering the Abhorsen while bound." So saying, the woman slipped the ring, which had somehow grown to the size of a dinner plate, deftly over the creature's head. As the metal slipped over the crackling blue and white body, the creature opened his mouth in an indignant scream. "Quick!" Ghidreth hissed to Abhorsen. "Bind him!"

With a practiced hand, the young man drew one of his bells and rang it. A low booming sound filled the room and Tirelle felt herself frozen in place. The ring tightened around the creature's middle, and it shrieked even louder.

"You bind me with _Saraneth_?" the Mogget spat venomously. But he was swirling into a column of white fire, growing more solid before becoming a small bearded man dressed in gleaming white. The silver ring soaked up the leaking colour of the ruby, and became a red leather belt. A miniature bell hung from where the buckle would be.

The dwarf doubled up in a sudden coughing fit, and spat out a silver ring which rolled between the bars and bumped into Abhorsen's boot. The young man bent to pick it up, and slipped it onto his finger.

Ghidreth opened the door of the cage, and the white dwarf stepped out, glaring in impotent fury up at them all. "It is a temporary binding", the Wallmaker said offhandedly to Abhorsen. "It requires a last bit of spellwork to become permanent. Until then, he will serve you faithfully, should you decide to go back on your decision."

"I'm not sure that it was the right one", King Berillan remarked, looking down at the still-glowering dwarf.

Abhorsen grinned. "Oh, I don't know", he said. "I've always wondered what it was like to have a servant."

In answer, the dwarf bared his sharp little teeth.

_A/N: Ah, good old Mogget. Now – due to the binding – he is not many things, only several. Reviews and questions make me happy!_


	8. Abhorsen Wields Me

_A/N: Sorry about the long wait! I've had a good question: in "Across the Wall", Lirael is referred to as "Astarael's get". I haven't read "Across the Wall", so how do I explain Saraneth being the Bright Shiner who gave the Abhorsens her powers? Well, Saraneth is described as being the bell the Abhorsens are most comfortable with. Also, if you take the two Bright Shiners who didn't become the Five Great Charters to be Kibeth and Astarael (because remnants of them are still in the Old Kingdom), then Astarael can't be one of the Five. Astarael could've been involved in putting power into the Abhorsen; she just didn't contribute all of her power._

**Abhorsen Wields Me**

Gabriel Abhorsen dashed through the trees, lungs burning with every breath he took. His legs felt like jelly as he stumbled over logs and crashed through bushes, blindly rushing along. His ears caught the faint sound of running water, and he hastily directed his steps in that direction.

The sudden crack of a branch breaking nearby alerted him, and he turned just in time to slice his blade through the Dead hand who had attempted to ambush him. He carried on running as if nothing had happened, but glared at the albino dwarf who was scurrying by his side.

"Why didn't you tell me there was one coming?" he demanded between gasps for air.

"You did not ask – _master_."

Abhorsen bit back the urge to sigh – he needed his breath for running after all. He knew that Mogget detested him, but that did not change the fact that the strange creature was his servant. If it wasn't for the binding, he would be very worried about being killed sometime during the night by the odd little fellow. At times like these, the young man wondered why he had ever agreed to receive Mogget's services.

They emerged from the undergrowth and skidded to a halt on the bank of a rushing river. A large island dominated the middle of the water, but the swift current would carry any swimmers over the edge of the waterfall in the blink of an eye.

At his side, Mogget crossed his arms bad-temperedly. "Enough of this", he snapped. "We both know that you have more power than the average Charter Mage, and I am getting tired of this "running away" business. Why don't you just blast those Dead hands to pieces, set up camp, and catch a few fish for dinner?"

"I cannot do that!" Abhorsen protested. "I have never even tried using my powers to that extent before. There must be thirty Dead hands, at least. _And _I'm wounded!"

Mogget cocked his head to the side in a manner that plainly told Abhorsen that he was acting foolish. "As your servant, Lord Abhorsen, I feel it is my duty to inform you when you are being particularly idiotic. And this is one of those times. You can either annihilate the whole pack of Dead hands by suppressing your infantile fear of your own powers, or we can sit here and wait for them to tear us up."

"Or", Abhorsen said softly, "We could get onto that island somehow."

Mogget snorted in obvious scepticism. "Oh yes. Just get onto the island. Why did I not think of that before?"

The young man chose to ignore him, and concentrated on summoning up a series of Charter marks he had learned from the Wallmakers. He was still surprised by how easy it was for him to perform these complicated spells. Golden marks cascaded from his fingertips, promptly assembling themselves into a narrow bridge that arced gracefully over the water.

Abhorsen grabbed the hand of a flabbergasted Mogget, and pulled him onto the bridge, which for all of its insubstantial appearance was quite strong. They were halfway across when they heard the Dead crashing through the bushes at the riverbank.

Stumbling onto solid ground, Abhorsen turned to see several Dead hands staggering over the golden bridge on their rotting limbs. He raised his hands and summoned a Charter mark, which flew like an arrow into the bridge and scattered the marks like dust. The Dead fell, gurgling, into the rushing water and were swept out of sight. The remaining Dead hovered on the banks of the river, plodding up and down in a futile attempt to find a way to cross.

"I hate to say it", the dwarf muttered from the young man's side, "But that was a pretty piece of spellwork, Abhorsen."

When it was clear that the Dead would not be able to reach them, Abhorsen turned and struck off inland. He and Mogget trudged through the sedge and grasses, making their way towards a magnificent fig-tree that stood close to the middle of the small island. "Well", Abhorsen remarked when they had reached it. "This is just as good a spot as any." He slung his pack from his back, and set about pitching his tent in the shade. Mogget wandered off, and soon returned with a catch of some fine salmon. By this time Abhorsen had built up a fire, and they enjoyed their first good meal in days.

"An island surrounded by running water", the young man mused aloud. "Fertile soil. Good fishing. This would be the ideal place for a home, Mogget."

"Tired of tramping around the countryside with your patched-up tent?" the dwarf sniffed as he sucked at the fish bones.

"Perhaps", Abhorsen allowed. He pulled off his boot and rolled up his trouser-leg to uncover a large gash. Back at the abandoned house when they had been ambushed by Dead, the young necromancer had charged out the door, ignoring Mogget's warnings. He had not been overpowered, but the sheer force of numbers had made it possible for one of the Dead to slash open his leg. The wound, though quite serious, had not prevented him from running into the forest.

Mogget set about patching up the wound, grumbling under his breath the whole time, but nevertheless doing a good job of treating it. When the dwarf had tied off the bandages, Abhorsen flexed his leg experimentally. "Thanks, Mogget", he said.

His servant scowled. "If you had only listened to me back there at the abandoned house and had refrained from hand-to-hand combat, this would not have happened."

"Maybe not", the young man admitted, "But what's wrong with hand-to-hand combat? This is a good sword, made to slay the Dead, if I remember the Clayr's weird prophecy correctly."

"I know", Mogget said impatiently, waving his knobbly hand. "But you don't need to use it all the time. I hate to say it, but you have more power in your little finger than most Charter mages have in their entire bodies. Don't let this get to your head, but you could have destroyed those Dead hands without a thought if you had wanted to."

The young man sighed, and picked up a stick to poke the fire with. "It's not that I think I'm not powerful enough", he said softly. "It's just that I will never be comfortable with performing that sort of magic."

The dwarf rolled his green eyes. "You're not _comfortable_ with it? Well, so what? The time may come when you won't be able to run away like you did back there with the bridge."

Abhorsen mulled this over for a few minutes. Then, seeming to make a decision, he threw the stick into the fire. "This is a good location", he said, looking around the island. "I'll contact the Wallmakers about having a house built here."

"Good idea", Mogget replied acidly. "Who knows? Perhaps with a nice home, a girl will overlook the fact that you slay the Dead for a living, and actually marry you. Poor, dear old Saraneth, when she so generously gave you her powers, did not consider what might happen if you, her darling _chosen_ one, were to fail to acquire a wife and heirs." The dwarf smirked. "So much for the Charter."

The young man bit his lip to refrain from retorting. In actuality, this was a touchy issue for him. Tirelle had taunted him about it for a long time. The truth was, he really needed to find a wife and start a family; otherwise, Saraneth's efforts would all have come to nothing. The Bright Shiner had chosen someone with unusual talents who could wield Charter magic with exceptional skill, but had she chosen someone who would be able to pass on her powers by having children?

Apparently, Mogget and Tirelle were of a mind concerning this issue. He would just have to prove them both wrong.

Abhorsen glanced at Mogget. The Wallmaker had told him never to unbind the belt, or else the creature would return to his Free Magic form. Still, he did have the ruby ring to bind him again, if it ever came to that. Ghidreth had warned him that, unbound, the Mogget would not serve him anymore. In order to truly free the binding, he would have to shed Abhorsen's blood.

The idea was not comforting in the least, and the young lord was determined never to loose the belt. Mogget obviously loathed him, and he did not doubt that, if ever unbound, the creature would not hesitate to kill him to become free. In fact, Mogget would probably enjoy killing him. Abhorsen had never had servants, but he was certain that this particular master-servant relationship was anything but ordinary.

The young man pushed himself to his feet, testing his leg. Mogget watched him out of the corner of his green little eyes. "I'm going back to the shore", Abhorsen explained.

The dwarf leapt to his feet. "What?" he demanded crossly. "I know I've called you an idiot more times than can possibly be counted, but this is ridiculous!"

"I'm going to get rid of those Dead hands", Abhorsen explained patiently. 'It's my job, isn't it?

"You could just stand on this shore and ring your bells at them", his servant replied pertly.

The young man inclined his dark head. "I could. But I also want to try out this sword again."

"You are enjoying that sword far too much."

"It's a good sword!" Abhorsen protested.

Mogget crossed his arms belligerently. "I know that", he snapped. "But it did not save you from that nasty cut you've got on your leg. What makes you think the Dead won't get you again this time?"

"Half of them _are_ in the river, you know", retorted Abhorsen. He turned and headed back for the shore.

Behind him, he could faintly hear Mogget grumble, "Why was I stuck with such an irrational sword-waving fool for a master?"

_A/N: Thanks for reading! I love reviews – questions and/or comments are lovely._


	9. Abhorsen's House

_A/N: First of all, thanks to everyone who reviewed; you're all such cool people! Now, on with the story… Like "Questions of Power", this is a sort of connecting chapter. Nothing of world-shattering importance actually happens, but we find out what everyone's been up to. A couple of years have passed since the last chapter._

_I got a question about what would happen if the Charter bloodlines failed to produce heirs. In Sabriel's time the royal line was virtually non-existent, so we saw what would happen: increased attacks from necromancers, the Dead, and Free Magic creatures. But it was the duty of the Abhorsens to pass on their station, so I imagine they'd have lots of children to try to ensure this; what with all the cousins there must have been _someone_ in each generation to take over the family business. The crown was passed on through the royal line anyway, so no worries there. And if the descendents of Tirelle were anything like her, then there would never be a lack of heirs for the Clayr!_

**Abhorsen's House**

Tirelle cleared her throat and said, "It looks like it's going well."

Abhorsen turned around, and grinned when he saw her. "Lady Clayr!" he greeted her, in a manner entirely too welcoming to be normal. Tirelle was instantly suspicious.

The Seer forced a small smile and bowed her head. "I was passing by on my way to Belisaere", she explained. "I heard that you were building a house, and decided to check up on you." Tirelle turned to survey the work. A team of Wallmakers had been obligingly sent to the island by Ghidreth, and construction was well underway.

"It's going to be magnificent", Abhorsen enthused. "We're going to plant an orchard over there, and there will be courtyards at either end from which you can access the shore. The house will have an observatory, and –"

"Sounds lovely", Tirelle interrupted, not bothering to put the tiniest hint of enthusiasm in her voice. "But what about defences, Abhorsen? You're not exactly the most popular person in the Kingdom."

The young man smiled. "The Wallmakers and I are working on those. The river itself is an excellent defence, but it does make it rather hard to get to the house. They're crafting a safe channel from which you can approach the island by boat – that way." He waved his arm vaguely towards the north. "They're also putting in rows of stepping-stones. You saw those on your way over, right?"

The Clayr nodded. Truth be told, she did not like the look of those stepping-stones at all. Thank goodness that they were not finished yet! The Wallmakers were accessing the island by means of temporary wooden bridges. Tirelle just couldn't picture herself hitching up her skirts to go hopping through the spray from stone to slippery stone. Having stepping-stones to his house just confirmed that Abhorsen was crazy.

"Lady Tirelle", the young man said craftily, and the Seer perked up at the sly note in his voice. "I would dearly like you to meet someone."

The Clayr followed Abhorsen curiously, stepping around blocks of stone and vats of mortar. Abhorsen gestured towards someone who stood in the courtyard, and Tirelle stopped dead in her tracks. The individual was a young woman. She was quite pretty, had long brown hair, and wore a simple woollen dress. But the most shocking thing of all was that she was heavily pregnant.

"Lady Clayr", Abhorsen said with a smugness that set the Seer's teeth on edge, "I would like you to meet my _wife_, Malia."

With an enormous effort, Tirelle forced herself to take a step forward. "Congratulations", she said sincerely to the young women, although she would be caught dead before she said as much to Abhorsen. "When are you expecting?"

"Within the month", answered Malia, beaming. "The Wallmakers say that a few rooms in the house will be habitable by then."

"If you don't mind me asking", Tirelle said as Abhorsen strolled off to discuss something with the Wallmakers, "How did you meet Lord Abhorsen?"

The woman gave a small laugh. "It was over a year ago. He saved my village from a Hish, but was injured quite badly in the process. He and his strange servant stayed at my father's home. I tended him and – well – things just went on from there."

"And now we are married!" Abhorsen confirmed jovially, coming up behind his wife and trapping her in a tight hug. Tirelle looked pointedly away as he noisily kissed Malia's cheek.

"Gabriel!" the woman remonstrated, trying and failing to look indignant.

Abhorsen glanced at the Clayr, and turned back to his wife. "What?" he teased. "Is anything bothering you, my little honeybee?"

Malia giggled. "Yes, sweetie. We're not exactly alone."

"My darling princess", the young man cooed, "Nothing will ever stop me from kissing you." He swooped in for another kiss. "How was that, muffincake?"

Trying not to gag, Tirelle turned away as politely as she could. Mufincake, indeed! If one of her many lovers ever called her "little honeybee" or "darling princess", she would instantly claw the eyes out of his head! Deciding to leave the two giddy youngsters alone for the moment, the Clayr wandered around the worksite. A white limestone wall had already been erected all around the island, to the height of six men, and the Wallmakers were currently working on the house itself. Tirelle also saw evidence of an orchard in the works, as well as a half-finished paved courtyard.

One of the Wallmakers, a short man with a scruffy black beard, nodded courteously at her as she passed. "Afternoon, Lady Clayr", he grunted.

Tirelle stopped in her tracks. "I'm sorry, are we acquainted?" she asked politely.

The Wallmaker shook his head. "No, ma'am. But I was at the Wall when you and His Majesty came to visit, for the Lord Abhorsen's sword. I'm Malfas."

The Seer shook his calloused hand, noting that the trowel on his leather vest was silver. "A pleasure", she smiled. "During my brief stay at the Wall, I'm afraid I only got to know the Wallmaker and Master Felio."

"I know Felio well", Malfas remarked. "He's in Belisaere now, with the Wallmaker herself."

"Yes, I know", said Tirelle. At the man's confused expression, she explained, "I am currently going to Belisaere myself. I will meet them both there."

"Ah". The Wallmaker's eyes sobered over his black beard. "Then you'd know about the – er – project they're supervising?"

The Clayr nodded her golden head seriously. "Yes", she whispered. "I know all about the Charter Stones, Master Malfas. Ghidreth told me that she had come up with the design quite a long time ago, but it was only recently that the Shining Ones had agreed to help."

"That is serious business", said Malfas quietly. He shook his head sadly. "It's certain that several Wallmakers will lose their lives. When you devote your life to building things, you always put a bit of yourself into them. But these Charter Stones, I think they'll take your whole self, not just a few drops of blood." He turned back to the block he was fashioning with hammer and chisel. "The Wallmakers are of two minds about it", he continued as he worked. "Some think it's worth it. Others think nothing's worth sacrificing lives, even volunteered ones."

"And what do you think?" Tirelle asked the man.

Malfas turned to look at her sombrely. "I don't know what to think", he confessed. "But it doesn't matter. I may be a Master, but I serve the Wallmaker. And in my experience, she's never been wrong."

A worker called for Malfas, and with a final nod he walked away. Mulling over the strange conversation, Tirelle was forced to agree with the bearded Wallmaker. She was nervous about the whole idea of creating Charter Stones. Such a thing had never been done before, creating a single channel through which all Charter Mages could access the Charter. It sounded very complicated, risky, and downright dangerous. But she also had to agree that Ghidreth was more than competent, and seemed to know what she was doing. _And if the Bright Shiners are involved_, the Clayr thought to herself, _It can't be all bad._

"Lady Tirelle!" called a voice that made the Seer close her eyes and suppress a heavy sigh. She turned with an insincere smile, to see Abhorsen and Malia making their way over to her, hand-in-hand. "Well, what do you think?" the young man asked jubilantly. "Doesn't my wife look beautiful?"

"Pregnant women often acquire a sort of glow about them", Tirelle said neutrally.

Malia gave the Clayr a shy smile. "You've had many children, so Gabriel tells me", she began hesitantly. "If you wouldn't mind… I would feel so much better if you were with me when… when it happens."

Both Tirelle and Abhorsen stared at her, utterly stunned.

"I – I'm not exactly a close friend", the Seer stammered. "It would be unseemly –"

"Of course it wouldn't", Malia insisted, eyes wide. "My mother died a long time ago, and Gabriel is an orphan. Some of my friends have agreed to come, but they've never had children before. I would feel so much safer if there was somebody who actually knows what it's like."

"I couldn't possibly", replied Tirelle, feeling herself blush. How could she explain that she absolutely hated this woman's husband? From the panicky expression on Abhorsen's face, it seemed as though he too was trying to think of a way to get her out of this awkward situation.

"She is the Clayr, beloved", Abhorsen put in quickly. "She has a serious job to do, working for the King."

The young woman's face fell. "Oh. I see."

Tirelle felt so sorry for the young woman, that before she knew it she heard herself saying, "I will try to be here."

The expectant mother's face lit up radiantly, just as her husband's darkened. At the first possible moment, he drew the Seer aside.

"So", the necromancer said plainly, crossing his arms.

"So", Tirelle replied, rolling her eyes. "It looks as though we'll just _have_ to get along."

Abhorsen bit his lip, then reluctantly extended his hand. "I am sorry for teasing you about having so many children. Right now, your knowledge is going to be invaluable to Malia."

The Clayr clasped his hand firmly. "And I apologize for making fun of your bachelorhood. You proved me wrong by marrying a lovely woman."

"Truce?" the young man asked, raising a dark eyebrow.

Tirelle smiled brightly. "Truce."

_A/N: Next up: the creation of the Charter Stones. Until then, all reviews are welcome!_


	10. The Great Stones

_A/N: Thanks for reviewing! You all rock, seriously. I love your comments, and questions are cool too. So, on to the next chapter! Tirelle has left Abhorsen's House and arrived at Belisaere to supervise the making of – guess what? – the Great Stones._

**The Great Stones**

Ghidreth stood waist-deep in freezing water, her arms folded tightly. Beside her Tirelle was looking on with wide blue eyes. Six large stones had been hauled down into Belisaere's reservoir by the Wallmakers, and placed in a circle in the centre of the columns. Ropes and pulleys had just been removed from the dark jagged stones, and all was in readiness for the ceremony.

Ghidreth nodded at the Wallmakers who waited at the periphery of the reservoir, and they sloshed forward, separating into groups of three. The Wallmaker watched with a mixture of sadness and pride as they joined hands around each of the stones.

Around the nearest stone were the brothers Imsiber, Malsiber, and Forsiber, all with wavy brown hair and twinkling eyes. Surrounding another were Trovin and Deliah, and their teenaged daughter Amitar, smiling bravely at one another. Encircling the stone next to theirs were childhood friends Romyn, Vicara, and Neri, strong young women who had learned and grown as Wallmakers together… and more. Eighteen Wallmakers in total had volunteered for this special task, and looking at them, Ghidreth's heart swelled with emotion.

"I should be doing this", she whispered to Tirelle sorrowfully.

The Clayr glanced at her. "You have a different part to play", she replied quietly.

The dark woman resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the Seer's enigmatic response. What could you expect from the Clayr anyway? Instead, she nodded, then cleared her throat. "Is everyone ready?" she called.

Murmurs of assent answered her. The Wallmakers had rehearsed their spells for months; each of them now instinctively knew which particular marks to cast and when. Ghidreth had never designed something of this complexity before, and so much relied on the talent of the Wallmakers involved. Normally an undertaking of this size and scope would have involved hundreds of Charter Mages, but this was different. In this task, they would have the help of two Bright Shiners.

Ghidreth turned to nod at Felio, and the young Wallmaker ducked out of the reservoir and called two names.

There was a moment of absolute silence, then a bright shape floated into the chamber, illuminating the shadows. It was a magnificent bird with shining silver plumage, a long fluid tail drifting behind. Following her was the shadowy figure of a man, impossibly tall, but graceful. His inky-black body was wreathed in vibrant emerald sparks, which twinkled over his cloudy limbs.

The tall figure glided over the water to stand in the middle of the ring of stones, his smoky feet barely brushing the glimmering surface. He acknowledged the Wallmakers with a courteous nod, and they inclined their heads in turn. "Belgaer", some of them murmured in reverent welcome.

The bird soared through the air without moving her wings, leaving a faint trail of silver mist in her wake that shimmered before finally fading. She hovered above Belgaer's head, eerily still, her feathers moving languidly in a non-existent breeze. "Ranna", the Wallmakers greeted.

Then all was silent.

"They await your signal", Tirelle breathed, only her large eyes betraying her nervousness. Ghidreth exchanged an uneasy glance with the Seer, and was surprised when the other woman suddenly gripped her hand encouragingly.

The Wallmaker licked her dry lips, and announced, "Let us begin!"

The gathered Wallmakers raised their hands and pressed them firmly onto the uneven stones. Charter marks blossomed from where their skin contacted the hard surfaces, spreading out like so many ripples on a pond. In the centre of the ring, Ranna and Belgaer opened their mouths and began to sing. Light poured from them both – a silver haze from Ranna and green sparks from Belgaer – which enveloped the circle of stones and the Wallmakers. Charter marks overflowed from the stones, mingling with the pure light of the two Shining Ones, and spilled out through the reservoir.

Ghidreth and Tirelle stumbled back, blasted by the power, until they had splashed up to the steps. Felio pulled them out of the water and they huddled, crouching on the cold staircase. They watched breathlessly until the brightness became too much and they were forced to shield their eyes.

Although she could not see it, Ghidreth could still feel the raw power surging out of Ranna and Belgaer straight into the Wallmakers. She could feel her eighteen friends seizing that power to work spells on the stones, and wondered how they could contain it all. After a few hours, or an eternity, the light faded.

Ghidreth reluctantly opened her eyes, and gasped.

The Wallmakers had vanished.

Ghidreth, Tirelle, and Felio cautiously slipped into the water and warily approached the ring of Stones. The water that lapped gently around their waists was sparkling. Ghidreth cupped some into her hands and was surprised to see Charter marks flowing between her fingers.

"The Stones", Tirelle whispered suddenly. "They are glowing!"

As they slowly drew closer, they could gradually make out the millions of Charter marks that flowed in and over the Stones, dazzling in their depth and complexity. The water closer to the Stones was not cold, nor really even wet. Ghidreth, Tirelle, and Felio were wading through magic – magic absorbed from the Charter Stones.

The little group hesitated at the edge of the Stones. In the heart of the ring, standing on the surface of the water, they could make out the dark outline of a man. Belgaer. The bright green sparks that normally wreathed his long frame had diminished in intensity. On his shoulder sat Ranna. The silver bird had lost some of her radiance, and was slightly smaller than when she had begun the ceremony.

The two Shining Ones looked up at the trio's approach. Ghidreth noticed with a shock that they were slightly translucent now, and flickers of Charter marks from the Stones beyond them were visible through their bodies.

Belgaer noticed her look. "That took more out of me than I'd anticipated", he admitted, booming voice resonating with power and shaking the walls of the reservoir. Ranna gave a light tinkling laugh, and Ghidreth felt momentarily drowsy.

Mustering up their courage, the humans entered the ring. They all jumped at the sudden surge of energy that coursed through their bodies. After her initial feelings of panic, Ghidreth's emotional burdens faded away. At her side Tirelle raised her golden head, and Felio's slumped back straightened.

"The Charter Stones welcome you", Ranna said softly.

Ghidreth reached out with a trembling hand and touched the rough surface of the nearest Stone. Instantly she felt herself falling into the Charter, surrounded by a myriad of golden marks, bathed in warmth and light– She withdrew her hand with a gasp. "They did it", she said shakily. "They made Charter Stones…"

Felio lifted a tentative finger and tested a Stone for himself. When he broke contact seconds later, tears were glistening in his eyes. "Vicara stood here", he said, voice choked with emotion. "When I touched it, she… she said hello."

"What?" Tirelle asked, turning to him. "You heard –?"

"No", Felio struggled to explain. "I… I _felt_ her. Like being touched by light… but it was Vicara's presence. I would know it anywhere."

Ghidreth was silent. She knew that Felio had loved Vicara, and that the bright young woman had loved him in return. But Vicara had been so dedicated to this project, that there had never been any hope for a future between the two young Wallmakers.

Farewells had been made in advance of this day, but Ghidreth had not been prepared for the eighteen Wallmakers to completely vanish. She had expected the task to drain them completely of their powers, and the volunteers had been prepared for death, but nobody had foreseen this.

"They are dead, then?" Ghidreth asked uncertainly.

"No", answered Ranna's melodious voice. "They did not go into Death. They are … transformed, shall we say."

"It is the fate that awaits the Wallmakers", Tirelle said unexpectedly. Ghidreth nearly jumped in shock. Despite the control she had over her composure, she would just never get used to this strange woman spontaneously spouting prophecies left and right. "It is the fate that awaits you", the Clayr continued. The woman's blue eyes were unfocused as if seeing something far off, and there was a note of prophecy in her words. The Seer suddenly blinked, coming out of her vision, and her brow furrowed in confusion.

Shivers involuntarily ran down Ghidreth's spine, and beside her Felio flinched. The Wallmaker idly wondered if Tirelle had any idea that her visions alarmed everybody else. Ghidreth was a Charter Mage, and thus had seen more than most people. But the utter weirdness of having a person unexpectedly make claims about your future was something she would never get used to. Especially if those claims were about the end of your life.

"Stay here for now", Belgaer said, breaking the spell. "Mourn. Recover. And _remember_!"

That last word slammed into Ghidreth, and she found her mind's eye teeming with memories of those eighteen brave Wallmakers. She stood in the middle of the ring of Charter Stones, waist-deep in magic – and she wept.

The Great Stones had been made, but at what cost?

_A/N: Belgaer and Ranna originally intended to put their blood into a few chosen Wallmakers, but the Wallmakers earned their place by talent regardless of birth. The Charter Stones were designed by the Wallmakers, Belgaer, and Ranna, to serve as a receptacle for their powers, and become a centre from which the Charter could be accessed by all Charter mages. Reviews, as always, are welcome._


	11. A New Bloodline

_A/N: I apologize for the long wait! I just finished my Shakespeare class, and I had my major essay to work on, and a final exam to study for. But now it's over, so I can go back to writing! To make it up to you, this chapter is extra-long. I hope you enjoy it._

**A New Bloodline**

"Damn Abhorsen, damn Abhorsen, damn Abhorsen… _Damn_ him!" Tirelle chanted this litany over and over as she steeled herself for the task. With a further curse that promised serious retribution to be visited upon a certain young man, the Seer gathered up her wits – and her skirts – and jumped.

Her heeled boots skidded on the stepping-stone as she landed, and only by frantically windmilling her arms was she able to keep her footing. She paused to steady her wildly-beating heart, and turned her face away from the river's spray. When she felt that she was sufficiently rested, the Clayr picked up her skirts once more in a business-like way, focussed on the next stepping stone with a ferocious glare, and jumped.

Upon landing, Tirelle felt her feet slipping out from under her. In desperation she threw herself down, and her gloved hands latched onto the surface of the stone. She lay like this for a while, sprawled unceremoniously over the stepping-stone, her cheek resting on her hand. "Damn that stupid man!" Tirelle hissed between her teeth. "And curse his ridiculous stepping-stones!" She struggled to her feet, brushing her hair impatiently out of her eyes. Only one more jump to the platform, and then this nonsense would be over.

The Seer let out a little growl of frustration, and frowned down at her soiled dress. Oh yes, Abhorsen would pay dearly for this. She gauged the distance carefully, bent her legs, and took a flying leap.

To her credit, Tirelle managed to land on her feet, and staggered into the wooden steps. She was cold, wet, and bruised, but otherwise unharmed by the experience. "I'm getting too old for this", she grumbled as she straightened her skirts and smoothed down her hair in an attempt to look presentable.

Once Tirelle was more or less ready, she climbed the wooden steps to the gate, which was unlocked, and let herself in.

The walls surrounding Abhorsen's House were complete and quite impressive, but the house itself and grounds were another story. The building's second floor was under construction, and the stone gaped emptily up at the darkening sky. The setting sun threw long shadows over the stretch of dirt and rubble that surrounded the house. The courtyards had been paved, but were strewn with half-hewn blocks of stone, and a stretch of dirt with bagged saplings marked the very beginnings of an orchard.

Picking her way around the mess, Tirelle walked gingerly up to the door of the house. She could hear voices inside, and only hesitated for a second before knocking.

The door creaked slightly open, and Tirelle peered into the dimly-lit entrance hall. Nobody was there! Shivers ran up her spine.

"Ahem!"

Tirelle looked down, and saw a little white-robed man holding the door open. He was so short that she had glanced completely over his head. And telling from the heated glare issuing from those green eyes, the little man was not pleased about being overlooked.

The Seer gave a polite nod, just barely managing to keep from smiling. "Hello, Mogget," she said courteously. "I didn't see you when I was here before. It's been two years since we've last… met, hasn't it?"

The albino dwarf gave a derisive snort before yanking the door completely open. He jerked his head, and Tirelle obediently stepped over the threshold. The House was dark, lit by sputtering torches and a few hastily-cast Charter marks. She had only a brief glimpse of a high stone roof before Mogget turned left. She followed him into an enormous hall.

About twenty Wallmakers looked up at her entrance, and Tirelle blushed as they all sprang to their feet to bow or curtsey. "Good evening, Lady Clayr," several of them said politely.

"Good evening," said Tirelle as she looked around the hall. It was not furnished, and telling by the row of straw palettes, this room was serving as the Wallmakers' lodgings for the time being. It seemed that they were in the process of fashioning spelled stained glass for the windows.

A Wallmaker with a scrubby black beard stepped forward, and Tirelle recognized him as Master Malfas. "They're through there," he beckoned at a side door. Tirelle nodded gratefully at him, and followed Mogget into a smaller circular room.

"May I announce Lady Tirelle, Clayr to King Ber–"

"That's enough, Mogget!" Abhorsen snapped. "You don't need to go announcing every visitor we have!"

"But I thought I was a servant", Mogget remarked, wisely keeping his voice to a whisper. Abhorsen was in no mood to be trifled with.

The young man looked almost frantic with worry, and ran right up to Tirelle. "Come and see her," he said urgently, grabbing the Clayr by the hand and pulling her further into the room, where three women were gathered around a fourth. The fourth was, of course, Malia. Sweat plastered the woman's hair to her forehead in damp brown curls, and her large eyes were wide with panic.

"Lady Tirelle," the young woman gasped. She reached up weakly with a pale hand. "You came after all."

"Of course," the older woman said as jovially as she could. "I said I would come, didn't I?" She grasped Malia's hand in her own and squeezed it comfortingly.

The young woman gestured at two young ladies at her side. "My friends," she said haltingly, and pointed next at a wizened old woman. "They brought the midwife Radine."

Tirelle locked eyes with the midwife, who drew closer to her. "Her water has broken," the old woman whispered. "The contractions have started. The baby is large. She's in for a hard night, milady."

The Clayr gave a brief nod. She looked around the circular room, noting the fresh straw spread on the floor and the Charter marks for light on the walls. Abhorsen hovered nervously near the door, obviously unsure of what to do.

Tirelle immediately took charge. "Lord Abhorsen," she said briskly, "This is no place for you. Go outside and wait with the Wallmakers." With a last wretched glance at his wife, the younger man obediently left the room. Tirelle moved to kneel behind Malia in the straw, bracing the young woman's back against her body. She looked up at Malia's two friends. "What are you waiting for?" she snapped. "Take her hands!"

The girls hurried to comply, and Malia gripped them fiercely. She bit her lip as another contraction shook her thin frame. Tirelle looked at the midwife. "How many?"

"That's the twelfth," the old woman replied. "She should deliver within twenty." The midwife slapped some ointment onto her palms, and pushed up Malia's dress to rub it over her belly. "There, now," she clucked comfortingly.

Malia tilted her head back on Tirelle's shoulder to look at the Clayr, fright evident in her large eyes. "It will be all right," Tirelle assured her. "Women have been giving birth since the dawn of time."

The young woman nodded, and closed her eyes as another contraction wracked her body. Suddenly she flung her head back, nearly giving Tirelle a black eye, and her mouth opened in a silent scream. The Clayr gripped Malia tightly beneath the arms, holding her upright, and supported the young woman's frail convulsing body with all her strength. Malia's two friends drew instinctively closer, holding tight to the woman's arms. Malia's scream shattered the air, and Tirelle instinctively closed her eyes.

She smelt the tang of blood, and opened her eyes just in time to see the midwife Radine tying off and cutting the umbilical cord. Beside her, one of Malia's young friends looked away, her face slightly green. Tirelle reflected that the young lady was probably not so keen on having children now. The midwife cleared the baby's throat of mucus, and breathed lightly into the little mouth.

A tiny cry split the air, and the old woman's face broke into a grin. "Look, Lady Malia," she exclaimed, "You have a fine son."

Malia opened her eyes, and even in her exhausted state was able to smile.

Tirelle embraced the woman gently, and she and the two younger ladies tended to the new mother as Radine looked after the child. Soon Malia was washed and wearing a clean dress, as her friends helped her swallow a mug of hot milk and honey.

Radine had bathed and swaddled the child in linen, and placed the babe in the mother's arms to be suckled. The two friends cooed over the "adorable" sight, but Tirelle had just about had enough of those two silly girls. "Help Mistress Radine pack up her things," she told them sharply.

The Clayr was never one to be argued with, and soon Tirelle and Malia were looking down at the babe in silence while the other ladies fussed in the background. The child was a healthy pink, and the fine hairs on his head were dark and straight. He would take after his father, then. "What will you call him?" she asked.

Malia blinked sleepily, and smiled in remembrance. "Gabriel and I discussed this. A daughter we would name after my mother, Iva. A son we would name after his father." She looked at the slumbering babe in her arms, and smiled. "Cassiel." Malia held the child up, and Tirelle took him. "Let Gabriel see him," the new mother murmured, her lids closing in sleep.

Tirelle walked to the door of the hall, the precious bundle held carefully in her arms. She was met with a strange sight: Abhorsen was standing a few feet from the door, arguing with the four Wallmakers who were holding him back. "…but I heard her screaming," the young man insisted indignantly. "Why can't I go in?"

"Women scream during childbirth," a female Wallmaker reasoned patiently, "And it would not be seemly to–" She broke off when she saw the Clayr, and Abhorsen and the Wallmakers swung their heads in her direction.

Tirelle stepped into the hall, and approached Abhorsen. "Your son," she said gently, laying the small bundle in the young man's faltering arms. The Wallmakers backed away to give the new father some room. Abhorsen looked down at the tiny face, then looked up at Tirelle, who nearly laughed aloud at his expression of shock. "Come on," she said kindly, leading Abhorsen over to one of the wooden benches that stood against the wall.

They sat side-by-side in silence for a long time. Finally, Abhorsen said, "How went your business in Belisaere?"

Tirelle did laugh at that. "Lord Abhorsen, I'm surprised at you," she teased. "Your son has just been born, and all you can talk about is business?"

The young man cracked a smile, before turning thoughtful. "All of this… your coming to help Malia and everything… What I mean is, why are you so friendly all of a sudden? You did not like me before."

"You did not like me either," Tirelle pointed out.

Abhorsen shook his dark head. "It wasn't that I disliked you," he explained haltingly. "It was just – well – I suppose that I was jealous." Tirelle turned her head sharply to look at him, but the young man didn't notice her reaction. "You and the King were always such good friends," he mumbled, "And I desperately wanted – no, needed – his approval. Between us there was always the fact that I had once been a necromancer. I never knew if he really trusted me."

"What?" Tirelle exclaimed, unable to keep silent any longer. "You were jealous of _me_? Abhorsen, which one of us was given the powers of a Shining One? You do not know how long that thought has tortured me. And of course, there's your popularity at court, with all your fine stories of battling Free Magic and the Dead. And me? All I get are rumours of what goes on in my bedchamber!"

Abhorsen grinned and nodded down at his son. "I think I'll hardly be at court, now that I have a family, so you can expect to see less of me. I suppose that's for the best."

"Yes," Tirelle agreed. "It's been difficult trying to get along with you." They smiled at each other.

"Can I see Malia?" Abhorsen asked anxiously, cradling the baby.

Tirelle got to her feet obligingly. "I will see if she is ready. If she's awake, we can perform the baptism at once."

"I'd be honoured if you would preside," Abhorsen said humbly, and the blond woman blinked in surprise.

"I would be most happy to, Abhorsen," she answered, "Although I should leave tomorrow morning. But I do hate to think of going over those stepping-stones again."

When she had gone, a low voice said from the region of Abhorsen's knee, "Why don't you conjure up that bridge for her like you did before?"

Abhorsen turned to see Mogget standing beside him, unnoticed as usual. The young man smirked. "Let's just keep that particular spell between you and me, Mogget."

_A/N: That Abhorsen is quite a rascal, isn't he? I love reviews of all shapes and sizes, and welcome any questions._


	12. Visit to Belisaere

_A/N: Big thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! As a reward, I'm posting this early. I hope you enjoy it._

**Visit to Belisaere**

"Are we there yet, Mamma?"

Malia resisted the urge to sigh, and forced a sunny smile onto her face. "Not yet, Cassiel," she said for what must have been the thousandth time.

The four-year-old boy bounced impatiently in his seat, before getting up to look over the edge of the boat. The King had graciously sent one of his many vessels to meet Abhorsen's family at Callibe, and the wonders of travel by sea had been sufficient distraction for Cassiel the first few days. But they would be reaching the palace soon, and Cassiel just couldn't sit still.

"Get away from the railing, Cassiel," Malia said absently, turning a page in her book. The boy pouted but obeyed, and set about playing with tiny wooden animals that the sailors had whittled for him.

"Will we see Lady Tirelle, Mamma?" he piped. The Clayr had become something of an aunt to Cassiel, and he adored her.

"Yes, we will," Malia answered. "And you will meet the King for the first time, and perhaps his children. They are much older than you, though."

A door banged open, and a frazzled-looking man wandered onto the deck, absent-mindedly adjusting his bandolier of bells. Malia hid a smile; her husband couldn't sleep well on boats. He had kept her up half the night with his moaning and complaining about the "stupid rocking" and the "annoying creaking" of the vessel, and it was only when Malia threatened to make him spend the night in the corridor that he finally shut up.

"Morning, Pappa!" Cassiel shouted, and Abhorsen winced, massaging his temples.

"Good morning, Cassiel," he answered weakly, squinting against the bright sun.

Malia closed her book. "Nice to see you up," she remarked cheerily. "How was your sleep, darling?"

Her husband shot her a sour look. "What sleep?" he grumbled, walking over to the silken canopy and sinking onto a divan. "Are we there yet?"

The woman gave him an affectionate smile. Like father, like son, or so the saying went. Her answer was cut off by a sailor's shout: "Entering Belis Mouth!" They moved to the railing, and Abhorsen swung Cassiel up onto his shoulders to get a clear view.

The bright city of Belisaere was before them. Malia had never seen anything so magnificent. Vast walls ringed the peninsula and mighty towers of white stone rose above them, bright pennants fluttering in the breeze. They sailed through the Sea of Saere, manoeuvring around the little fishing boats, the grand barges of the nobles, and the enormous trading vessels which carried precious cargoes of spices and other delicacies. Cassiel waved energetically at everybody they passed, and several people waved back.

They headed for a smaller harbour reserved for guests of the King, and as they disembarked from the vessel, a figure in white approached them. Malia recognized who it was at once. "Lady Clayr!" she cried, moving to embrace the woman.

The Seer smiled faintly. "I'm glad to see you, Malia," she said sincerely. She looked beautiful as ever, golden hair pinned up under the moonstone circlet that marked her office. "And Cassiel, too," the woman added, looking up at the boy on Abhorsen's shoulders.

"Hallo, Lady Tirelle," the boy called gleefully down from his perch.

The Clayr finally decided to acknowledge Gabriel. "Lord Abhorsen," she said neutrally. "It's been a long time."

"Four years, in fact," Malia's husband remarked cheerfully, reaching up to poke Cassiel in the ribs, "Ever since this rascal's baptism. The last I saw of you, you were hopping across those stepping-stones. You were quite spry for your age."

Malia shot her husband an admonishing look, and he had the good grace to shut his mouth. Tirelle, for her part, decided to act as if nothing had happened. She led the small family up a broad marble staircase, through a beautiful garden, and into the palace halls. Servants and red-plumed messengers moved aside and bowed as they passed. "What news with you?" Malia asked Tirelle as they walked through the bright, airy corridors.

The blond woman placed a hand on her belly and smiled secretly. "It is only in the early stages, but I expect another child in the spring."

"_Another_?"

Malia looked over her shoulder to glare at her husband, who was wearing an expression of utmost innocence. "How old are you again, Lady Tirelle?" Gabriel asked, his eyes sparkling mischievously. Malia loved her husband, but he could be a scoundrel sometimes.

The Seer frowned, but answered the question. "I am forty-one." She turned back to Malia, who was thinking of having a private talk with her husband about proper manners. "I know I'm quite old to have a baby. My youngest is eight years old, and my eldest is over twenty! So I think I can definitely say that this one will be the last."

"Seven children," Malia said wonderingly.

"Seven daughters," remarked the Clayr. "I have Seen her. She will be the seventh child of a seventh child, and therefore powerful. There is good magic in that number." Malia had heard the folklore too, and had never really believed it. But if Tirelle said that something was so, then it was so.

They reached a set of double doors, and Abhorsen swung Cassiel down from his shoulders. Tirelle moved forward, and with a sweep of her arms she threw the doors wide open, announcing in a loud voice: "May I present Lord Abhorsen, his wife Lady Malia, and their son Master Cassiel."

Malia was surprised to see that the vast room held no less than four people, all of whom were now looking right at them. She gulped nervously, embarrassed by the attention. A man stepped forward to greet them, quite a nice-looking man really. There was more grey in his curly hair than brown, his face was lined with laughter, his eyes sparkled – and he wore a crown. The woman felt her stomach plummet to her feet when she realized that she was meeting the King!

Berillan took her hand and bowed in welcome. "I am most pleased to meet you at last," he said graciously, and Malia managed to nod. The King moved on the greet Abhorsen and Cassiel, and the woman decided that he seemed friendly enough. She might even be able to talk to him, if she plucked up the courage. King Berillan waved his hand. "May I introduce my son, Prince Dantalion" – a young man in a crimson tunic bowed low – "And my advisors, Countess Shera of Olmond, and the Honourable Sir Halban." An aged lady and a moustached man inclined their heads. "They will be joining us for dinner."

Malia felt her husband take her arm, and he smiled down at her encouragingly. She was suddenly very glad that Gabriel was here with her, and managed a smile of her own. The group headed through yet another set of double doors, into yet another room that was even larger and grander than the first. A long table stood beneath a magnificent crystal chandelier, and enormous windows looked out onto the Sea of Saere. Malia could see the brightly-coloured sails bobbing out on the turquoise water like toys.

They took their seats, and servants in red and gold livery brought in the first course. Cassiel could hardly contain his excitement, bouncing restlessly on the cushions that had been piled on his chair.

"Any new tales of fighting Free Magic creatures, Lord Abhorsen?" the Countess Shera asked with interest once they had been served.

Gabriel gave a charming smile. "Why, yes, now that you mention it. A moon ago, the good people of Roble's Town contacted me to–" Malia furtively poked him in the side, and he fell silent. She had noticed the expression on Tirelle's face – a strange mixture of annoyance, longing, and hurt. Why did Gabriel have to be so popular? "But perhaps we can save that for another time," Abhorsen finished.

Malia almost thought that King Berillan caught her eye and winked, but she couldn't be sure.

"So, Lady Tirelle," Abhorsen remarked brightly as the King poured the wine. "Who's the father of this one?"

That was hardly an appropriate question, and Malia could sense the tension between the two, but it was the King who answered. "Rumour in the court has it that it's me," Berillan remarked amusedly. "Although I assure you that's not the case."

"Rumour always has it that it's you," Countess Shera remarked dryly. "Half the court is convinced that the King has been sporting between the Clayr's sheets–"

"Lady Tirelle, what were you saying about the Charter Stones?" interrupted the Prince loudly. Malia turned to him, wondering if he had been upset by the Countess' comment, but the young man's eyes were twinkling.

The Clayr grinned in acknowledgement of the Prince's timely interruption, but answered the question. "So far they've been working out fine. I talked to Ghidreth, and she thinks that it's possible to make more Stones around the Kingdom, to be joined to these ones."

The Knight, Sir Halban, dropped his fork. "What?" he exclaimed, moustache ruffling. "Those Charter Stones claimed the lives of eighteen people! I told you all that it was a reckless idea."

Tirelle sighed, and shook her head. "Those lives were volunteered," she pointed out quietly. "I'm no expert, but the lesser Stones might not claim lives like the Great Stones did. And if we set them up all around the Kingdom, then we would be helping Charter Mages everywhere." Malia noticed that Sir Halban, like herself, was not a Charter Mage.

"It would certainly make my work easier," Abhorsen remarked through a mouthful of food. Malia frowned. Oh yes, he was certainly going to get a talk on manners tonight.

The King turned to Cassiel, who was looking rather cowed by all of the grown-up talk. "What do you think, Master Cassiel?" Berillan asked the boy seriously. "Should we make your father's work easier?"

Cassiel nodded his dark head vehemently. "Pappa's hardly ever home. He always says he's got to go put down those stupid Dead." Tirelle laughed, and Malia hid her smile in her napkin, trying to look cross. "I'm going to help him," the boy claimed proudly. "He's teaching me about his work. He took me into Death twice already."

"Really?" Tirelle remarked, raising an eyebrow. "My second daughter Penemue is coming here soon. She will train with me to be the next Clayr, just like you're training with your father. And how do you like going into Death, Cassiel?"

The boy shrugged, popping a plum into his mouth. "It's cold," he said simply. Juice dribbled down his chin.

"Cassiel," Malia sighed, reaching over to wipe his face with a napkin, "Please be more careful when you eat."

"I made a sending at the House to give Cassiel his baths," Abhorsen remarked, "But the thing's gone rebel and wants to wash everyone. It won't listen to orders, either. I think somehow I overdid the spell."

"Probably because you carry the Second Charter," Tirelle remarked, somewhat bitterly.

Sensing danger, Countess Shera spoke up. "The things we do for our children," she tittered, smoothing everything over.

King Berillan gave a chuckle of fond remembrance. "You should have seen Dantalion when he was younger."

The Prince rolled his eyes. "Father, please."

"How many children _do _you have, sir?" Cassiel asked the King, having finally escaped from Malia's scrubbing.

"I had five," Berillan answered. "Now I have two."

"What happened to them?" the young boy piped.

"They died."

"How?"

"Cassiel!" Malia scolded quietly, but the King shook his head.

"It's all right," he assured her. He looked at the young boy, who held his gaze solemnly. "My first daughter was younger than you when she fell into the reservoir below the palace. My second daughter tried to ride a wild horse, and broke her neck. And my eldest son was killed by a necromancer far from here." He glanced at the Prince, who was staring at his plate. "Princess Merabel is staying with her uncle and cousins in Ancelstierre, but Dantalion is the eldest child I have left." The King grinned suddenly, "So he'd better hurry up, get married, and produce some heirs!"

The young man groaned, and made a face. Malia noted that this seemed to be a point of contention between the two of them. "I would thank you, father, if you stopped encouraging your friends to bring their eligible daughters to dine with us," Prince Dantalion said wryly. "It's not very subtle."

"I wouldn't need to invite them if you were more sociable," the King replied amicably. "Crown Prince Dantalion, an honourable warrior and brilliant military mind – but never caught dead alone in a room with a girl." Laughter rippled around the table, and even the Prince had to smile.

Sir Halban spoke up abruptly. "Twenty-four is old for a bachelor, my lord, especially if he's the Crown Prince." His voice was sharp with disapproval.

"Yes, thank you, Sir Halban," the Prince said angrily. "I have heard your opinions before."

There was an awkward silence. Cassiel, of course, didn't notice it, and took the opportunity to make himself heard. "I - don't - like - girls," he declared, so adamantly that everyone burst into laughter again.

The Prince raised his glass of wine. "I'll drink to that," the young man said ironically, and ducked a ferocious glare sent his way by Tirelle.

"They _can_ be trying sometimes," the King admitted, grey eyes twinkling. "But we do love them anyway."

Malia felt her husband's hand meet hers under the table, and she held it tightly. "How's my little turtledove?" he whispered.

The woman smiled. "I'm just fine, sweetie." She leaned in to kiss him, and not even Cassiel's disgusted squeals of protest could ruin the moment.

_A/N: Ah, young love… You see that Abhorsen is back to his sickening little nicknames. At least he didn't call her "Muffincake". shudders And now that they have a kid, it'll be difficult for them to go all mushy on us. Tirelle should be pleased. Reviews, of course, are welcome._


	13. A Strange Proposal

_A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed! Here's the new chapter; a couple years have passed since the last one. Now you can laugh at my attempts at being fluffy and romantic! I actually hate writing romance, so this should be interesting… On with the show!_

**A Strange Proposal**

Crown Prince Dantalion was bored. How long did Council meetings have to go on, anyway? Was there a minimum time limit that he did not know about? And was this why they were having these circular conversations?

There had been the usual talks about how to spend Belisaere's wealth. Dantalion was frustrated with certain Councillors, like Sir Halban, who wanted to spend every penny fortifying the city and palace. Dantalion thought that it was incredible that people could be so paranoid. They were probably intent on saving their own skins, which was a shame because there were many needy people in the city. Dantalion had lost his composure, and told them exactly that. At least it had convinced his father, although now the Prince wasn't very popular among the Councillors. But then, when was he ever popular with them?

Next they had discussed the matter of the Clayr. Apparently, Tirelle had Seen a home in some northern glacier for herself and her daughters, and the Council had to agree on how many Wallmakers to pull off the Wall and send north. Tirelle was there now, and had left her second daughter at the palace as the Acting Clayr. Dantalion liked Penemue. She was a great friend of his, and she didn't scare him at all, unlike the truly frightening woman that was her mother.

And now the Council was talking about building the lesser stones. Now that the Great Stones had turned out to be such a success, locations had to be chosen for lesser stones all around the Kingdom. Prince Dantalion had tuned out half an hour ago.

"Do you agree, Lord Prince?"

Dantalion looked up, completely unaware of what had just been said. He glanced at his father, whose amused expression showed that he was aware of this fact, and wasn't going to help him out on this one. Dantalion decided to improvise. "I have no immediate objections," he said with as much poise as he could muster.

King Berillan nodded his grey head. "Very well," he said with an air of finality while Dantalion wondered what on earth he had just agreed to. "Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. You are dismissed."

The Prince was quick to get out of his chair and leave the room, unwilling to face his father's teasing. Contrary to popular belief, Prince Dantalion did have a sense of humour, although he did not always appreciate his father's. He allowed his feet to follow a familiar path through the halls, taking him to one of his favourite rooms in the palace.

Dantalion nodded at the various guards and servants who greeted him as he passed, intent on his destination. At long last, he reached the intricately-caved door of the Reading Room, a small library reserved for members of the Royal Family, their advisors, and their guests. It was smaller than the Palace Library, and most of the volumes were fictional tales to be read for pleasure, not reference. It was just the sort of place Dantalion liked to go to after particularly trying Council meetings.

The Prince was pleasantly surprised to see that one of the armchairs before the fireplace was already occupied. Penemue, the Acting Clayr, was curled up with a thick book open on her lap. Dantalion was jealous of the fact that for her, Council meetings were optional – _he_ did not enjoy such luxury. Penemue grinned and waved at his entrance, and Dantalion executed an excessively formal bow. "My Lady Clayr," he greeted her deferentially.

The young woman giggled, and inclined her head graciously. "My Lord Prince," she replied solemnly, although her eyes were twinkling.

"May I enquire as to what you are reading?" Dantalion asked, keeping up the ridiculously formal pretence.

The young woman raised her chin, and answered, "You may." She held up the book so that he could see the embossed leather cover. "It is the famous tale of _Kile and Aurina_."

Dantalion took a seat opposite her, draping one long leg casually over the arm. "My mother liked to read that," he remarked frankly, deciding to drop the ceremonial charade.

"Most women do," smiled Penemue. "It is quite possibly the best romance ever written."

"Yes, I've heard." The young man rolled his eyes. "We have Lord Kile, who is so rich, handsome, and impossibly proud – but _wronged_. And poor Aurina, graced with wit, beauty, and rare intelligence. She first hates him, and then grows to love him, and finally marries him. Generations of women have swooned over Lord Kile."

"Are you jealous?" Penemue teased, raising an eyebrow.

"Not particularly," grinned Dantalion. He waggled his own eyebrows. "I have charms enough to commend myself to most ladies."

"Oho! Charms!" the young woman laughed, eyes wide with feigned shock. "Apart from your incredible modesty, of course, the charms of a person to inherit a Kingdom are great indeed!"

The Prince hitched a pout onto his face. "I have more charms than my crown," he protested.

"Sword-fighting, riding, hunting, and archery are not charms, Lord Prince."

"I can dance too," Dantalion pointed out. "A man must be gentlemanly. Admit it, Lady Clayr. I can be charming… when I wish to be. The fact that I hardly ever wish to be is beside the point."

"But still that is not the same as Lord Kile," insisted Penemue, settling down into the familiar manner of earnest discussion. Debate was one of their favourite pastimes. "Yes, he is rich and handsome. But secretly he is generous of heart, always honest, and fond of his family. These are qualities that nobody knows about, except for those who love him best."

"I have such qualities," said the Prince, countering the argument. He swung his leg down from the arm of his chair. "Generous of heart? Just minutes ago I convinced my father to spend more funds on relieving the poor rather than on fortifying the palace, as his bone-headed Councillors so wished. Always honest? I never told a lie in my life, even when it got me into trouble – which has happened several times, I assure you. Fond of my family? The love I bore my dead mother, brother, and sisters only increased the love I now feel for my father and Merabel, so that they are dearer to me than the world."

"I know all of this about you," Penemue said patiently, leaning forward. The firelight glinted off her moonstone coronet. "The people do not, but I do. I was only teasing."

Dantalion made a face. "You know, usually we're quiet, reserved, level-headed people. But when we get together…"

"We act like idiots," Penemue nodded. "I have enough blackmail material on you to make my fortune."

"Likewise," smirked Dantalion. "But what are friends for?" The Prince noticed something strange flicker over the Acting Clayr's face. "What?" he asked. "You don't like being my friend?"

"What? Oh – oh, of _course_ I like being your friend," said Penemue, blushing.

"No, your face changed when I said that," the Prince stated. "What is it?"

"It's nothing," replied the young woman, staring determinedly at the ground.

Dantalion rolled his eyes. "It's something," he insisted. "Go on, you can tell me." The Seer remained silent. "You don't want to be friends anymore?" the Prince pressed. "What – you'd rather be something else?" Penemue's blush deepened, and the young man's mouth dropped open in shock. "That's it, isn't it?" he said wonderingly. "You want to be… more than friends?"

His words hung in the air. The young woman closed the book with a snap and set it aside before leaping to her feet. "I really must go," she said hastily, turning to flee.

Dantalion jumped up and barely caught her arm as she passed. "Wait," he said breathlessly. His heart was pounding in his ears as he leaned in to kiss her. Penemue was frozen with shock for a few seconds, before her body relaxed and melded perfectly with his. Dantalion reached up and pulled the crystal pins from her hair so that it fell down her back, and gently stroked the long golden waves.

When they finally broke the kiss, both of them were blushing. Penemue looked up into his eyes and gave a small smile. "Whoa…"

They both burst into laughter. Dantalion regained his composure first, and looked down at the woman in his arms. "Marry me?" he asked softly.

Penemue's expression changed from merriment to surprise. "I – wha – _pardon?_" she stuttered.

"Penemue, you're my best friend," the Prince said reasonably. "You know me better than anyone else. I never get tired of talking with you. You're smart, you're fun, you're kind… I can't think of another person in the Kingdom I would rather spend the rest of my life with."

"Dan," the Seer said desperately, "I cannot marry you! You're the Crown Prince, for Charter's sake. And I – my mother was born a commoner, and my father is a minor lord whom I've never met."

"You are a daughter of the Clayr," Dantalion said sensibly, "And that makes you nobility."

"But I would be a _terrible _Queen!" she protested, shaking her head. "I don't know anything about it!"

"No, you would be wonderful," urged the Prince. At the doubt that remained on her face, he clasped her hands in his. "Pen," he said seriously, "Is the only reason for your refusal the fact that I am the Crown Prince?"

The Seer bit her lip and sighed. "Yes," she admitted miserably.

In contrast, Dantalion broke out into a huge smile. To everyone other than Penemue, such an expression on the face of a man who always looked so grim would be close to frightening. But to Penemue it only looked rather silly. "Well, that's easy to fix!" the Prince remarked merrily. "I will abdicate!"

"What? _No!_" Penemue cried, absolutely shocked.

"It's simple," the man shrugged. "Merabel can be called back from Ancelstierre to begin her training to become the Queen. And I will marry you."

"That is ridiculous," the young woman protested. "You would be a great King, Dantalion. If you gave up the throne, it would be such a loss to the people. I couldn't let you do that, just for me."

"Then say yes," said Dantalion.

The Seer shook her fair head. "I – well – it's just – Oh, 'Princess Penemue' sounds so ridiculous!"

"So now you're refusing because of your name?" Dantalion laughed.

Penemue smiled, and fidgeted. "Yes… no… I mean, I'll think about it?"

That was enough for the Prince. He wrapped his arms around her, and spun so that her feet lifted off the ground. When he put her down, they kissed happily.

A sudden bang ended the moment, and they turned to see Sir Halban standing in the library doorway, a pile of books his feet. His eyes were as wide as saucers, and there was a very long, very awkward silence. When the moustached man finally regained his composure, he executed a swift bow, mumbled an apology, gathered up his fallen books, and fled the scene at a near-run.

Dantalion smiled down at Penemue. "You'll just _have_ to marry me, now that this is going to spread around the palace."

The young woman rolled her eyes eloquently. "Oh all right, I'll marry you!" she nearly snapped, then put her hands to her mouth in horror. "That sounded, terrible, didn't it?" she said wryly, her ears going red.

The Prince gave a lopsided smile. "Yeah, it did," he agreed. "Let's try this again, shall we?" he slowly took one of her hands in his, and got down on one knee. "Penemue," he said gravely, looking up into her eyes, "Will you marry me?"

He could feel her hand trembling, but the Acting Clayr managed to give a trembling smiled. "Yes, I will," she sniffed, tears pooling in her large blue eyes.

Dantalion got to his feet and took Penemue's hand. "Wonderful! Now let's inform my father, before Sir Halban tells him about us secretly kissing in the library."

Their laughter was cut off by an almighty crash, and from somewhere down the hall they heard the King bellowing, "WHAT!"

Penemue winced. "Too late."

Rapid footsteps came in their direction, and the young couple waited in wretched anticipation. All too soon, the King stormed in followed by a frightened-looking Sir Halban, two visiting lords, and what looked like the entire Council. The small library was becoming quite crowded.

"Son," King Berillan demanded, walking right up to Dantalion. "Is it true? Well? Is it?"

His eyes were burning with intensity, and the Prince gulped. "I can explain, father," he said in a rush. "I know what this must have looked like to Sir Halban, but the fact is that Lady Penemue has just agreed to be my wife."

The short silence that followed his words was awful, but Dantalion was completely astonished when his father seized him and enveloped him in a bear-like hug. He was even more astonished when the Council broke out into loud cheers and applause. Sir Halban was saying to a fellow advisor, "…about time!" and Countess Shera was wiping her eyes on her sleeve.

Berillan turned next to Penemue, and kissed her hand. "My congratulation, Lady," he smiled. "You are most welcome to our family."

The Acting Clayr smiled bashfully and curtseyed. "Mother will be pleased," she noted.

Berillan grinned. "I believe she will be."

"When do you plan on having the wedding?" Countess Shera asked, no doubt already picturing a massive celebration.

Dantalion placed his arm around Penemue's waist. "As soon as possible," he announced to the shocked and delighted Council.

But King Berillan shook his head. "The wedding of the Crown Prince must be a splendid affair. You don't want to disappoint the good people of Belisaere, do you?"

The two young people exchanged dubious glances. Finally, Penemue shrugged. "A Royal wedding? Might be fun."

Dantalion nodded thoughtfully. "You know, it just might be."

_A/N: The tale of "Kile and Aurina" is based on Jane Austen's "Pride and Prejudice". I have to admit that I fell in love with Mr. Darcy when I first read it!_

_Now I think it's pretty obvious what the next chapter's going to be about – just look at the last couple of lines! We'll be seeing lots of familiar faces, don't you worry. Until then, review please?_


	14. Royal Wedding

_A/N: First of all, I'm sorry that this took a while! I was having some problems with this chapter, you see. But now it's up; that's something, isn't it?_

**Royal Wedding**

The sight of a sixty-year-old woman perched on the top of a wall like a child would normally be enough to draw many curious gazes. At least, that is what Ghidreth thought to herself.

The streets of Belisaere were lined with people pressed together tighter than peas in a pod, but none of them spared her a second glance. Ghidreth and a few other Wallmakers had chosen this particular spot because of the view. They had staked out a claim on a section of brick wall that bordered some Lord's property, and they were not alone: walltops, rooftops, balconies, and trees were practically overflowing with people, all eager to catch a glimpse of the procession as it went by.

Every pair of eyes was trained upon the street corner, around which would come the Royal wedding procession. So of course, even an old woman sitting on a wall wasn't enough to distract anyone.

The entertainment was still quite some distance away, and Ghidreth kicked her heels, humming idly. She and the other Wallmakers had abandoned their usual leather vests, for the sight of an embroidered trowel was enough to have people clamouring for you to fix things for them. It was a great nuisance, and the Wallmakers had quickly learned not to advertise their occupation.

Ghidreth had not been to a large city for years, and she had forgotten how many people there were. Dressed in simple woollen garments, with kerchiefs holding back the long hair of the women, the Wallmakers blended in easily with the citizens of Belisaere.

"Look!" someone called suddenly, and soon everybody was chattering excitedly. Over the hubbub, Ghidreth could hear the faint sound of music. She and the Wallmakers craned their heads to get a better view as the procession rounded the corner.

First came several young girls dressed in pale green. They wore ribbons in their hair, and danced down the street throwing flowers from their baskets. After them marched lines of musicians playing flutes, tabors, fifes, and drums. Ghidreth couldn't help but smile at the merry tune, and the audience roared with approval and clapped their hands to the rhythm. A band of acrobats were next, men and women in bright tunics and leggings. They cartwheeled down the road, standing on each others' shoulders and turning somersaults. The crowd was loving it.

Next, a band of drummers rounded the corner, with a legion of flag-bearers marching after. They carried the standards of every Lord in the Kingdom, with the red and gold Royal banner at the head. The Wallmaker almost thought that this procession would never end. Seriously, how many Lords of the Kingdom could there be? Among the forest of flags, Ghidreth spotted a blue one with a single silver key. Abhorsen's noble lineage continued, despite his past occupation as a necromancer.

At last the flag procession came to an end, and following it were troops of foot-soldiers in red and gold uniform. The Wallmaker thought that she would never see the end to them, either. Did Berillan want to impress his subjects with the size of his army? Ghidreth drummed her fingers impatiently on the top of the Wall, while the younger Wallmakers played "I spy".

When the soldiers had finally passed, ranks of mounted Knights rode by on horseback, ten abreast. Their silver armour flashed in the sunlight, and the horses tossed their plumed heads and jingled their bits. The children in the crowd squealed with delight at the horses, and the guards lining the parade route had to work hard to prevent them from dashing out. Ghidreth was not so bored by this, as horses were always a delight to watch. She amused herself by counting the black ones.

As the last horse trotted through the palace gates, a hush seemed to spread over the throng. Coming around the corner, Ghidreth could see two lines of youths holding branches in their hands. And between those two lines walked four girls. They all had shining blonde hair crowned with flowers, and wore dresses of frothy white.

"Now who do you suppose _they_ are?" Iva, a Wallmaker, murmured.

Another Wallmaker, Russen, snorted. "They're the bride's sisters, of course. You know, the bridesmaids."

The crowd, which had become very quiet, suddenly broke into riotous cheers. Ghidreth pushed herself to her feet, and placed a steadying hand against the trunk of a tree. Above the heads of the waving crown, she could see an open carriage drawn by eight white horses. And inside that carriage was a beautiful young woman. As if on cue, a gentle breeze sprang up and the apple trees lining the road started to spill their scented white blossoms. The Wallmakers stared at the bride as she went past, and Russen muttered, "She looks like a… a…"

"A princess?" Iva suggested ironically.

As the carriage rattled through the palace gates, Ghidreth gathered herself. "Come on," she said briskly. The Wallmakers moved quickly along the top of the wall and leapt down to the ground. They could see the door of the Royal chapel, a building attached to the side of the palace. While most of the procession had remained in the courtyard within the palace gates, the bridesmaids and bride had gone inside. Ghidreth pushed her way through the crowd, and managed to make it into the cleared space before the gates, which had been closed. Uniformed guards were posted there, as well as at the chapel doors.

"Hello," Ghidreth panted, quite winded from fighting through so many people.

The guard narrowed his eyes. "Move along there, ma'am," he said gruffly. "Only guests allowed inside the gates."

The Wallmaker raised her eyebrow, and pulled an embossed card from the pocket of her dress. She handed it through the gate to the guard, who glanced at it before staring at her. "My apologies," he said hastily. He signalled to the other guards, who quickly pulled the gates open. Ghidreth and the Wallmakers were bowed through and led right up to the chapel doors. They smirked at the guards as they passed through, who could not believe that this small group of scruffy-looking men and women had an invitation to the Crown Prince's wedding.

The chapel was very old, like the palace, and made of stone. Light streamed through stained glass windows, and wooden pews lined either side. They were quietly ushered to a row of seats near the back, and Ghidreth peered up at the people standing by the altar.

A Charter Mage was reciting words to the congregation, words that Ghidreth could not make out. She could see Berillan standing to the right of the altar, dressed in his finest crimson and white tunic tasselled with gold. He was even wearing his ceremonial crown! Ghidreth stifled a laugh; Berillan hated wearing that crown. He found it much too unwieldy, and preferred the simpler ones. To the left of the altar was Tirelle, wearing the white dress and moonstone coronet of her station. And before the altar stood a young couple. Prince Dantalion wore a uniform of red and gold, and a golden circlet gleamed on his head. Lady Penemue wore a white dress sprinkled with golden stars, her long hair held back by a jewelled net. They were reciting their vows, but Ghidreth was too far away to hear.

Sitting in the front row were the four bridesmaids, and another blond woman bouncing an infant on her lap. Ghidreth recognized them as the rest of Tirelle's daughters. And seated next to them, she recognized the dark head of Abhorsen. The woman beside him would be his wife, and the young boy on his knee would be his son. It looked like everybody had been invited – everybody who Ghidreth considered important in the Kingdom, at least. Of course, her idea of who was important did not correspond to the ideas of most of the influential people in the Kingdom.

The Charter Mage presiding over the ceremony joined Prince Dantalion's hands with Penemue's, and wrapped a length of red ribbon around them, binding them in marriage. They kissed, and Tirelle pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve to dab at her eyes as the guests broke out into applause. The small, bedraggled group of Wallmakers whistled loudly and stamped their feet, earning several glares from prominent members of the nobility. Ghidreth managed to catch the King's eye, and winked.

With the ceremony finished, the guests were herded through a set of doors into the palace ballroom. Refreshments covered tables that lined the walls, and Ghidreth told her Wallmakers to mingle and have fun. A group of musicians played lively music at one end of the room, and already the Prince and his Princess had started the dancing.

Ghidreth managed to work her way towards the King, who turned and smiled in welcome. "Ghidreth!" he exclaimed, clasping her hand warmly. "I'm glad that you could make it."

"So am I," the Wallmaker replied. "And don't worry about your Wall. Felio is supervising the construction while I'm gone."

Berillan took two goblets of wine from a servant, and handed one to her. "I'm not worried," he remarked mildly. "The Wall will be finished when it's finished. But now, we celebrate."

Ghidreth raised her goblet. "Congratulations. I like your crown."

The King chuckled, before removing the hideous thing from his head. Ghidreth examined the enormous gemstones and shook her head in disbelief that any craftsman could bring himself to make something so ugly.

"I brought gifts for the bride and groom," the Wallmaker remarked absently, still staring at the crown.

"The secret to making gethre armour?" Berillan asked, eyes twinkling.

The older woman shook her grey head. "You know that I will never give that up, Your Highness. Not even to the Royal armourers."

"Pity," the King remarked. "You could probably use their help in making it, especially with your new projects. That reminds me… did you get my message?"

"I did," confirmed Ghidreth. She glanced around the room, and lowered her voice. "This home that Tirelle has Seen sounds like a tremendous undertaking. I mean, it is practically a town in itself! And built in a glacier, at that."

"Future inhabitants will be able to expand it," the King said reasonably. "Tirelle Saw what it would be like in the future. You need to work with her to determine exactly what needs to be built now. And if anyone can craft a home inside a glacier, it has to be the Wallmakers."

Ghidreth shrugged fatalistically, unable to deny the truth of his words. "I will send over a team to work with Tirelle and draw up some preliminary plans for this home. They will have to survey the glacier, take measurements, test the ice… Perhaps Master Malfas will be willing to make the trip north. He did such a good job on Abhorsen's House, after all."

King Berillan smiled in agreement. "There is something else I wanted to talk to you about," he said, running a hand through his grey curls. "I sent you the locations we chose for the lesser Charter Stones."

"Ah, yes," said the Wallmaker. "We're almost ready to start those. Many Wallmakers have volunteered for that project. I do not think those Stones will claim lives, but the volunteers are all prepared for the possibility of death… or "transformation"… or whatever happened with the Great Stones."

The King's grey eyes focussed on her sharply. "What do you think will happen?" he asked.

The woman drew a deep breath. "Well, the task will be very draining, there's no doubt about that. The Wallmakers' powers will be weakened – permanently, or temporarily. To tell you the truth, I'm not quite sure what will happen."

Berillan clasped his hands together, head lowered in thought. "Perhaps we should ask one volunteer to try it first, and see the extent of his or her injuries. The Great Stones were unique in that they all had to be created together. But these stones can be made separately, and we should know what we are getting into."

Ghidreth gave an ironic smile. "I quite agree." She turned to look back at the celebration, and spotted a familiar dark head. "I see that Lord Abhorsen finally settled down," she remarked. "Malfas told me that he'd had a son."

"Cassiel," said the King. "Delightful child. Abhorsen is training him to take his place."

"Already?" the Wallmaker asked, eyes widening slightly. The boy couldn't have been older than seven. "Well, I suppose you're never too young to learn your life's vocation." She watched Abhorsen, and her eyes alighted on a familiar emerald pommel stone flashing at his side. "And how does Lord Abhorsen like his sword?" she asked.

Berillan couldn't hold back a laugh. "He hasn't been apart from it since you forged it for him," he chortled.

Ghidreth lowered her voice. "And what about… Yrael?" she asked.

"I believe he prefers to stay at the House," the King replied evenly. "Your binding has worked so far. Abhorsen tells me that although he believes the creature would dearly love to murder him in his bed, it has not harmed him – or anyone else, for that matter."

"That is a relief," Ghidreth agreed. She was about to say something more, when they were pounced upon by the two newlyweds.

"Hello, father," the Prince grinned. "Hello, Ghidreth," he added merrily. "It's been a while since I last saw you. Still slaving over that Wall of yours?"

The Wallmaker was pleasantly surprised by the young man's behaviour. He had always been perfectly polite, but hardly ever what one would call friendly. It seemed that marriage could do a lot to a person. Or love. Or maybe it was just the infectious delight unique to weddings. "Yes, I'm still slaving over that Wall of mine," she confirmed wryly. "And I will be, to the bitter end." She turned to the young woman at his side. "My congratulations to you, daughter of the Clayr."

"My mother told me about you," the bride said cheerfully. "I must admit, you're not at all what I expected."

"Sixty years old and still going strong," the King remarked. Ghidreth resisted the urge to smack him. She would probably be arrested if she did that.

"I have wedding gifts for both of you," she said instead. The Wallmaker raised her arm, and Iva and Russen materialized at her side as if summoned by a spell. They hadn't, but Ghidreth was sure that if she had really wanted to summon them by magic, she could have. Just something to think about.

Iva stepped forward, holding a package wrapped in paper. The Princess opened it eagerly. A book fell into her hands, and she gasped at the title. "_Kile and Aurina_!" she practically squealed, and her husband groaned and rolled his eyes in mock exasperation.

"The book is spelled so that only a woman can close it," Ghidreth said helpfully.

"You can do that?" exclaimed the Crown Prince.

"If I hadn't been able to close your mother's copy," the King said calmly, "You would not have been born, Dantalion."

Ghidreth laughed aloud, the Wallmakers sniggered, Dantalion put his face in his hand, and Penemue giggled and blushed.

"And here is _your_ wedding gift, Prince," said Ghidreth, struggling to remain composed. Russen offered the young man something wrapped in fabric. Dantalion pulled back the folds of cloth to reveal two swords sheathed in three-quarter scabbards, complete with a wide sword-belt. "I made them myself," said the Wallmaker, "About the same time that I forged Abhorsen's sword."

The Prince slowly put on the belt and swords. This was the Dantalion that Ghidreth had known, the serious-faced warrior. "May they serve you well," she said. With a wave of her arms she dismissed Iva and Russen, who returned to the celebrations.

"What's going on here?" a merry voice interrupted, and Ghidreth turned to behold Abhorsen's smiling face. His wife and son were beside him, and a flurry of introductions followed. During the exchange, Tirelle joined the little group.

"Are we having a meeting?" the Clayr asked jovially. Her face was alight with happiness at seeing her daughter married, and she was a lot friendlier than what Ghidreth remembered. It seemed that weddings changed a lot of people for the better. Or maybe it was the fantastic wine that was being served.

"We look silly just standing here while this music is playing," Tirelle announced. "We should all be dancing!" Her new son-in-law gallantly held out an arm, and she took it with a curtsey. The King bowed to Malia, who blushingly accepted his hand. Penemue paired up with Cassiel, who looked thrilled at the idea of dancing with the bride. And Abhorsen winked at Ghidreth.

"Looks like we're stuck together," he remarked impishly.

"Looks like it," Ghidreth agreed. "It's been a while since this old woman danced, but on this day I'll make an exception." With a wink and a grin, Lord Abhorsen took her hand and twirled her onto the dance floor.

_A/N: Yay, everyone's together! And they're partying! I took the hand-binding ceremony from pagan wedding rituals, which I thought seemed appropriate for this early time in Old Kingdom history. The next chapter will be back at the Wall with Ghidreth. Until then, a review would be lovely!_


	15. The Wallmaker's Patient

_A/N: ARGH! The site wouldn't let me upload my document, so apologies for this chapter being late. Thanks to all the cool people who reviewed the last one. And now, we meet a new character in this chapter! And yes, you _have_ heard the name before. Bet you can't guess who it is…_

**The Wallmaker's Patient**

Felio's face was relaxed in sleep, and he looked much younger than his age. He was young enough to be Ghidreth's son, as a matter of fact. The Wallmaker supposed that was one of the main reasons why she was personally looking after him now. That and the fact that he had been her assistant ever since he'd joined the Wallmakers.

Felio had been one of the youngest Wallmakers to reach the rank of Master, and his work was famous in the East of the Kingdom. People had not asked questions when he'd volunteered to make the first lesser Charter Stone, perhaps because the talented Wallmaker had been an obvious choice for such an important task.

But Ghidreth knew better.

Ever since the Great Stones had been made nearly eight years ago, Felio had thrown himself into his work without regard for his health or safety. It was because of Vicara, the Wallmaker who had sacrificed herself for the good of the Charter. Ghidreth wanted Felio to be happy, but this latest incident caused her to suspect that he had deliberately overexerted himself.

And now he was lying on a bed in the old room that had once held Yrael's cage, and he was unconscious. Felio had channelled Belgaer's powers to make the first lesser Stone, linking it to the power of the Great Stones, and he had succeeded. However, the task had completely drained him. He had lain in a deep sleep for nearly a month, and nothing had been able to wake him. Needless to say, Ghidreth was concerned. Forget that – she was nearly senseless with worry.

The Wallmaker glanced up at a chart on the wall of the room. It was a crude map, with red squares marking all locations designated for Charter stones. If Felio recovered from this ordeal, then other Wallmakers would craft hundreds of stones all over the Kingdom, stones which would draw power from either the Great Stones or the Wall. To be repaired, the Charter Stones would need the power of the Charter itself, from one of the Shining Ones or from a member of one of the bloodlines. But it took someone of great skill, a true Wallmaker, to actually _create_ one.

Ghidreth heard a low moan, and turned back to Felio. The Wallmaker had opened his eyes, and was blinking up at her in confusion. "Welcome back," she greeted him, unable to hold back a huge smile.

The younger Wallmaker, however, frowned. "So it didn't kill me," he murmured. He sounded almost disappointed.

Ghidreth was quite irritated at that remark. She and the other Wallmakers had worked hard to keep Felio alive and relatively healthy, and now he wished that he was dead? It sounded very ungrateful to her. She knew that Felio had loved Vicara deeply, and she knew that he had been heartbroken when Vicara had made the Charter Stones, and she knew that he had needed time to grieve. But _eight years_? This was getting ridiculous, and if something was not done soon Felio would wallow in misery and self-pity without end. He could even do something rash. Something more rash than volunteering to make the first Lesser Stone, that is.

Ghidreth felt for his pulse, placing her fingers on his wasted wrist. "How do you feel?" she asked, forcing her voice to sound gentle, and not annoyed.

"I feel…" the man frowned. "I don't know… I feel worn out, I guess. Drained." Ghidreth wasn't surprised. His cheekbones stood out sharply in his pale face, and his eyes looked over-bright.

"Can you do magic?" the Wallmaker asked her assistant.

Felio closed his eyes, then shook his head. "The Charter is there," he confirmed. "I just can't do anything with it. I doubt I have the strength to light a candle."

Ghidreth had expected as much, and she gave Felio's arm a comforting pat. "We'll take it slowly," she assured him. "Perhaps in a week or so you will regain your strength and abilities." She could only hope that the condition wasn't permanent. If it was, the number of Wallmakers who had volunteered to make the Stones would drop drastically.

As the Wallmaker was lost in her thoughts, the dark-haired man shoved back the bedcovers and got unsteadily to his feet. "Now just wait one minute!" Ghidreth said indignantly. "Where do you think you're going, in your condition?"

"I'm getting out of here," Felio announced grimly. "I can't believe you put me in Mogget's old room."

Ghidreth rolled her eyes, but allowed the man to take a few steps – until he collapsed onto the floor. "See?" she pointed out. "You're too weak to be going anywhere. You haven't eaten anything solid for a month."

"Look," sighed Felio from his position on the floor. "I'm not staying in this room like some invalid. Help me into your workshop, or I'll crawl there."

The Wallmaker briefly considered telling him that he _was_ an invalid, but she did not want to antagonize him, not in his condition. Then she considered blocking the doorway and daring her assistant to try to crawl past her, but fortunately decided against it. She rolled her eyes, then gave in and helped Felio stagger through the door. Inside the workshop Ghidreth clapped her hands together, and settled the thin Wallmaker onto the chair that had unfolded from a twisted piece of metal.

Felio let out a long sigh as he sank into the chair, allowing his head to loll back. He blinked. "Those are new."

Ghidreth looked up at two swords hanging on the wall amidst the other weapons. "Yes, they are," she admitted. "Sister-swords Seen by Tirelle."

"They're beautiful," he admitted almost grudgingly. "Who made them?"

"That one, Binder, was forged by Masters Russen and Iva. The second was made chiefly by Master Nehima."

"Nehima?" Felio repeated blankly. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "What is she doing here?"

Ghidreth kept her expression neutral. "She's helping me," she replied evenly. The talented young Master Nehima had been working on the West end of the Wall, and her skills had grown quite famous in that region. She was actually a distant relative of Tirelle's, and had a little Seer blood. Ghidreth had asked her to replace Felio as her assistant while the man was incapacitated. And judging from the expression on Felio's face, the Wallmaker did not like being replaced one bit.

"And what's the sword called?" Felio managed to ask, trying to steer the conversation away from the uncomfortable subject of his rival.

It was not to be so. "It's called… Nehima," the Wallmaker admitted. Felio scowled; none of the Wallmakers had ever had a weapon named after them before. The fact that a Wallmaker from the west had been given that honour was already a source of jealousy and resentment among the other Masters, and it appeared that it would be the same with Felio. "Tirelle Saw a sword named Nehima," Ghidreth tried to explain. "When she told me this, I knew which Wallmaker was to forge it."

"You chose her because her name happens to be the same as the sword's?" he spluttered.

"Yes."

"How could you trust her with something so important?" Now Felio was getting worked up, and Ghidreth hoped that he didn't collapse or anything before she could placate him.

"She is older than you were when you and I forged Lord Abhorsen's blade," the Wallmaker said levelly. "And Nehima was not the only forger, of course. She had help with it."

Felio opened his mouth to retort, but the door banged open and a man ducked inside, shaking rain from his cloak. "Good evenin', Ghidreth," he said solicitously. When he saw that she had company, the visitor's eyes lit up. "You all right, Felio?" he asked cheerfully.

The younger Wallmaker nodded. "Hello, Master Malfas," he greeted the other man. When the bearded man gave him a look of concern, Felio raised his hand. "Don't worry about me. I'm quite all right."

Ghidreth and Malfas could both see that he was lying, but they wisely said nothing about it. "The plans for the Clayr's home in the glacier," Malfas said to Ghidreth, pulling a roll of parchment from his pack. "We can go over them, if you like."

The Wallmaker shook her grey head. "You go and rest, Malfas," she instructed. "We can discuss the plans tomorrow morning." The bearded Wallmaker touched a hand to his cap, and left Ghidreth's house.

She cleared a space on her cluttered workbench and unrolled the map, placing pieces of wood and metal and half-completed knick-knacks along the edge of the paper to keep it from rolling up on itself. Felio scooted his chair closer, and peered down at the diagrams. "Remarkable detail," he murmured, examining the plans with an expert eye. "How curious – a spiralling library."

"And look at these," Ghidreth tapped at various points on the parchment. "They look like secret chambers and passages. So many of them! And the specified engravings and spells for each… 'Lirael's Path', that's interesting…" They stared down at the inscriptions that were meaningless to them, but no doubt full of meaning for future inhabitants.

Felio shook his dark head. "Tirelle seems to be Seeing much," he remarked ironically.

"Tirelle's daughters are also Seeing things that need to be made," Ghidreth observed. "The Wallmakers do not have much time left to make such things, after all."

"What do you mean?" Felio turned to look curiously at Ghidreth, who avoided his gaze.

"I mean that the Wallmakers will not last forever," she said quietly, "And that our end may be nearer than we think. What we are building – this Wall – it may end up costing us more than a few drops of blood." The silence that followed was uncomfortable, and Ghidreth briskly said, "I'll pull three teams of Wallmakers from the Wall, as the King ordered, and send them north. Malfas should be in charge, don't you think?"

"He's a good Wallmaker," Felio agreed, getting back to business. "Raised as a carpenter, I think. He'll do well on the Clayr's home."

A quiet knock sounded on the door, and another hooded figure stepped through. The cloak was duly removed and hung on a peg, and Ghidreth was surprised to see Nehima herself. She liked the small blond woman, but this was perhaps not the best time for her new assistant to come visiting.

"Hello, Wallmaker," the young woman said brightly, tossing her long yellow braid over her shoulder. She turned to the other occupant of the room and smiled, holding up a covered tray. "Hello, Master Felio. Malfas told me that you had woken up, so I decided to bring over some soup. I've been helping Ghidreth feed you while you were asleep, and it's high time you had another meal."

The dark-haired Wallmaker looked rather stunned, and gawped at the petite woman as she set the tray in front of him. Ghidreth knew that Felio was starving, but his fingers fumbled with the spoon before he could pick it up.

"I'll be assisting the Wallmaker until you are fully recovered," Nehima chirped, not noticing Felio's strange behaviour. "I hope that you are not upset at the idea of me taking your place for a while. I am the most qualified for the job, anyway. And you've been through a dangerous ordeal, and need to take things slowly."

Ghidreth looked to see what Felio's reaction would be to these words, and was astounded to see that he was staring at Nehima with a rather silly expression. Indeed, if Ghidreth had not known better, she would have said that Felio was captivated by Nehima's forget-me-not blue eyes… But that couldn't be right! Although the two Masters had never met, they were still rivals in the Kingdom – weren't they?

But now that she thought about it, the Wallmaker did remember the gentle, fond expression that had graced Nehima's face whenever she had taken care of Felio. And she was certainly mothering him now, in a bossy sort of way. Nehima was helping him eat his soup, and wrapped a blanket firmly around his thin shoulders. Ghidreth looked back and forth between Felio and Nehima, and smiled. Perhaps some cure for Felio would be forthcoming, after all.

_A/N: Yup, it's Nehima! Now, some tidbits I thought you'd appreciate: a pronunciation guide! Ghidreth (gih-DRETH), Berillan (BARE-ill-lahn), Tirelle (tih-RELL),Malia (MAY-lee-uh), Felio (FEE-lee-oh), Dantalion (dan-TAH-lee-on), and Penemue (PEH-neh-myoo). I will kill anyone who calls Felio "felly-o". The poor guy has been through enough!_


	16. Plans at the Wall

_A/N: At first Nehima was going to be just a briefly-mentioned character, like Malfas, but she started to grow on me. This chapter was the result. Enjoy!_

_Thanks for the suggestion, Lady!_

**Plans at the Wall**

Nehima was not a popular woman.

It was a prevalent opinion that she was extremely arrogant. This was a great fault indeed for a person of her relatively few years, and a woman to boot – never mind that her considerable talents as a Wallmaker merited _some _pride in her handiwork. Whispers of "bighead", "suck-up", "know-it-all", and "clever clogs" followed her wherever she went. The fact that a sword was named after her did little to help her reputation, and she was heavily criticized for fact that she "signed" all of her work.

That much, at least, was true. Within the Charter marks of every object that she had ever made as a Wallmaker, she had hidden the inscription: "Remember Nehima."

As a little girl, Nehima had not been frightened of death. What had truly frightened her was the idea that she would one day be completely forgotten. It would be as if she had never existed, and that was a terrifying thought for a young girl. Throughout her life she had strove to accomplish noteworthy deeds in order to be remembered, and this driving ambition had taken her to the foremost of the Wallmakers.

But then something unexpected had happened. She had left her cozy little workshop at the West end of the Wall to become the Wallmaker's personal assistant and, as luck would have it, one of her duties as said assistant had been to take care of the ailing Master Felio. The Wallmaker, after all, was a very busy woman; thus Nehima had taken on the greater part of the task, for Ghidreth would not trust Felio's care to anyone less skilled.

The poor man had lain in bed for a month, often plagued by nightmares from which he could not wake. Nehima had spent many a sleepless night placing cold cloths on his brow and trying to shush him whenever he grew restless. She had found that singing some of her mother's Northern lullabies helped, although she felt ridiculous doing so. She had also fed him, which was a daunting task in itself. Thin soup and gruel had to be spooned into Felio's mouth, and Nehima was forced to massage his throat to induce him to swallow. It had been a slow, painstaking process, and normally Nehima would have thrown down the spoon within a minute. But in tending the sick man she had found patience within her that she'd never known existed. She supposed that buried inside of every woman was an instinct to mother those in need.

Despite her careful feeding, Felio had grown quite thin and weak by the time he finally opened his eyes. Nehima had been shocked at his sickly appearance, and her motherly healing instincts had kicked in. That first evening he hadn't spoken much, but had allowed her to feed him. She'd chattered on about this and that, not really noticing what she was saying. It was all to cover her embarrassment, although she hadn't really known _why _she was embarrassed. Perhaps it had been the strange way he looked at her. He certainly possessed the most unsettling pair of eyes she had ever seen: light grey eyes like twin moons, which looked odd against his black hair…

Nehima had soon realized that she was growing fond of Felio. It was an odd situation, because she was essentially his replacement. Nevertheless, the would-be rivals had become good friends during Felio's period of recovery – to everyone's immense surprise.

But strangest of all was the fact that Nehima no longer worried about being forgotten. As long as she was known to those people who really mattered to her, then that was all she needed. It was a peculiar philosophy, but there it was. Of course, this transformation in her attitude towards life wouldn't matter to the other Wallmakers. To them, she would always be the arrogant young lady from the North who happened to be distantly related to the Clayr.

She was going to come face-to-face with some of those other Wallmakers right now. Ghidreth had called a meeting between a few of the Masters to discuss the major projects facing the Wallmakers, and it was to be at Ghidreth's hut. Felio would be there, of course, along with Masters Russen, Iva, and Malfas. Russen was an expert in weaponry and specialized in gethre armour, the Wallmakers' best-kept secret. Iva spelled smaller objects, such as toys and tools. It was she who had come up with the spell to place on Princess Penemue's copy of _Kile and Aurina_. And Malfas, of course, designed buildings, and had contributed greatly to the planning of the Wall itself. There were many other Masters of great repute in the Kingdom, but these were the finest ones at the East of the Wall.

Nehima entered the Wallmaker's hut without knocking, and was mortified to see that she was the last one to arrive. Iva smirked up at her, and the younger Wallmaker ground her teeth before taking her seat. Her belligerence faded when Felio tipped her a small smile, which she gratefully returned.

"As we were saying," Ghidreth carried on as if nothing had happened, "The construction of the Wall is well behind schedule. We have determined that this is due to the intricacies of the spells that need to be put into every single stone. Any suggestions?"

"We need more Wallmakers," Malfas said simply.

Russen nodded his red head. "That really is the only solution," he agreed gruffly. "We've stretched our workforce to the limit."

Murmurs of assent filled the room. All of the Masters were immersed in their own projects, and lately the workload was beginning to overwhelm them. Nehima herself was behind schedule, a fact that stung her pride. She had two swords yet to forge, swords which were supposed to have been finished a moon ago, and her section of Wall was three feet shorter than it should have been.

"I'll need to send out more recruiters," the Wallmaker declared, making a note on a scrap of grubby parchment.

Iva banged her fist on the table. "That is _not_ going to work," she said flatly, and Nehima glared at the older woman. "We've recruited countless times," Iva carried on. "There are simply _no others left_ in the Kingdom, with the required Wallmaker abilities, that haven't been found yet! We'd be pulling even more workers from the Wall and sending them on fruitless missions."

"No others left in the Kingdom?" Nehima repeated incredulously, unable to keep silent. She made an impatient gesture with her hand. "Who are the people making bells for the necromancers, then?"

Felio let out something that could have been either a laugh or a cough, and Malfas grinned behind his scrubby black beard. Iva did not seem to find the situation humorous, but she did not voice any more objections to the plan. And for that, it was well worth being disrespectful – at least, in Nehima's opinion it was.

"Right," said Ghidreth, rummaging through a mess of papers in front of her. "On to our second topic of discussion: the Charter Stones."

Everyone turned to stare at Felio, who looked rather uncomfortable under such intense scrutiny. "I'm fine," he said nervously. Iva gave a snort of scepticism, and Nehima felt an instant flutter of anger.

"Well, he _is_," she said crossly. "Master Felio has recovered almost all of his previous magical ability." That much was true. Although he still looked a little ill, Felio could once more work Charter spells with ease. It had taken them the better part of three months to build up his magical strength once more, but they had done it.

"Is this true?" Russen said sharply, turning on Felio.

The other man cringed slightly, but nodded. "Yes," he said, a tiny hint of irritation creeping into his voice. "Anyone who wishes to make a Charter Stone will be severely weakened initially, but they will be able to make a full recovery in time."

"Well, that's settled," said the Wallmaker happily. She was overlooking the obvious tensions present between the Masters at the table. Either she was oblivious, or these petty rivalries had gone on for so long that she ignored them. Nehima believed it to be the latter. "Now, we've mapped out the locations for the stones." Ghidreth pushed herself to her feet and walked over to a large map pinned to the wall. She tapped the parchment, and red dots lit up all over the map, marking the future Charter Stones. "The only thing left to do is choose the Wallmakers," Ghidreth explained. "We've had a large number of volunteers for this. I narrowed the list down to a thousand, and it needs to be further trimmed."

"How many volunteered?" Russen asked curiously.

"Nearly twice that, but I removed anyone I judged to be of insufficient strength."

"Two thousand!" Iva murmured wonderingly. "So many!"

Felio reached for the list, and scanned it. "I know most of these Wallmakers," he said. "I'll narrow down the list."

Ghidreth nodded gratefully. Nehima knew that the Wallmaker, genius that she was, wasn't the most organized person in the world. That had been Felio's job, and now that he was hale again he could take up his bookkeeping duties once more. Nehima had found the clerical part of her duties as Wallmaker's assistant to be quite irritating. She lacked the patience essential for secretarial tasks.

"Thank you, Felio," the Wallmaker was saying. "Now, in order to make these Charter stones we need sources for the Charter. There are hundreds of locations, and we cannot ask the remaining Bright Shiners to go hopping all over the countryside. I have a feeling they wouldn't agree."

The Wallmakers fell silent as they pondered this new dilemma. Nehima was struck by a sudden thought so brilliant that she silently congratulated herself. "We can send messages to the Royal Family and the Abhorsen for help," she announced triumphantly. "They're sources for the Charter now, aren't they?"

"Clever girl," Malfas muttered, and Nehima beamed.

Ghidreth smiled her thanks, nodding her grey head. "See to it, Felio," the old woman instructed. "Dispatch messenger-hawks to King Berillan and Abhorsen explaining our predicament." She shuffled the mess of papers in front of her, trying and failing to look efficient. "Right. Er – Now we're on to our final topic of discussion. It's about a home the Clayr has Seen in some northern glacier. Malfas?"

The bearded Wallmaker took his cue and cleared his throat. He unrolled a large map of the north of the Kingdom, and tapped a spot among the mountains. At his touch, two of the peaks turned green. "The glacier in question is called the Moon's Mirror, situated between these two mountains, Starmount and Sunfall," explained Malfas. "It is already pitted with caves and passages, which we can build from. However, the home that Lady Tirelle has Seen is very complex." He unrolled yet another piece of parchment, which turned out to be a detailed building plan. "The King has ordained that we pull three teams of Wallmakers from the Wall. The home would take an estimated twenty years to complete. I would prefer to have more workers."

"Twenty years?" Nehima repeated dully, then almost smacked herself on the head for sounding so stupid. She always tried to keep her composure before the older Masters, but sometimes it slipped.

Felio frowned. "Even three teams of Wallmakers are quite a workforce," he remarked. "Removing them will delay the completion of the Wall even further."

The Wallmaker shrugged fatalistically. "We will have to pull Wallmakers from lesser projects," she sighed. "I cannot give you more than three teams, Malfas. I'm sorry."

"That will reduce my production of gethre armour," Russen argued, flushing with anger. His pink face clashed horribly with his red hair. Nehima knew that this particular Wallmaker took the projects he oversaw _very_ personally. Indeed, every Wallmaker thought the projects they were working on were of utmost importance, never mind what others were up to. Nehima knew that to ask a Wallmaker about their work was to receive an enthusiastic five-hour lecture full of boring technical details. Of course, Nehima wasn't like that. She wasn't deluded by false conceit. She _knew_ that the Wall was the most important project of all, and the fact that she was working on it had absolutely nothing to do with it.

"We shall all need to make sacrifices," said Ghidreth patiently to Master Russen. "I suppose that gethre armour will never be mass-produced as you so wished, and shall remain a rare and valuable artefact." The old woman sighed heavily, running a hand through her long wavy hair. "It all comes down to needing more Wallmakers," she concluded tiredly. "Nehima, could you organize a round of fresh recruiters?"

The younger woman nodded obediently. She was glad that Ghidreth was keeping her on as her assistant, along with Felio. Nehima rather liked it here at the East end of the Wall, and not only because of the presence of a certain dark-haired Master. Sharing duties with Felio would be fun, too.

"Is there anything else?" the Wallmaker asked. The Masters shook their heads, and Ghidreth waved her calloused hand. "Dismissed."

The Masters got to their feet and shuffled to the door, murmuring goodnight to one another. Felio and Nehima walked together in the direction of their huts, heads bowed against the light rain that had begun to fall.

Now that they were alone, Nehima felt the tenseness leave her shoulders. Around other Masters she was constantly worrying about her image. But around Felio, who had been the youngest Wallmaker to be made a Master, she could be herself. Nehima couldn't understand why the Masters all respected Felio and yet treated her with barely-disguised contempt. She was just as good as him, and better than most. She decided that it must have something to do with her personality. Those old Masters wanted young Wallmakers to be courteous and deferential, and Felio was not the type of person to offend anyone. But Nehima wasn't going to roll over for some old codgers who erroneously thought themselves superior to her.

"So," Nehima said at last, wrenching herself away from these unpleasant thoughts. "We have received our sentences. _You_ will be buried in bookkeeping, and _I _will be riding around the countryside to recruit more poor sods to our noble cause."

The man's mouth twitched. "Interesting way to put it," he remarked lightly. "How long do you think you'll be gone?"

The young woman shrugged and tossed her yellow braid over her shoulder. "I'm not sure," she admitted, twisting her mouth into a half-smile. "Perhaps a moon or two."

"That long?" asked Felio, voice quiet. His next words were mumbled to the ground: "What should I do if something were to happen to you?"

Nehima stopped short, and Felio walked on a few paces before realizing that she was no longer at his side. The woman was lost for words – was Felio saying what she thought he was saying? "Well," she replied carefully, measuring every word, "In that case, I want you to do one thing."

"And what's that?" the other Wallmaker asked softly.

Nehima smiled. "Remember me."

_A/N: I'm starting to like Nehima. Okay, so she's a conceited little know-it-all, but I still like her! I've figured out that this story will be around 25 chapters long. Unfortunately I can't write a full-length novel, so we'll have to do some skipping through time in order to cover the forty years spanning this story. Also, school starts in a week, so the next chapter might be a little late in coming. Just a LITTLE late, mind you! Until then, reviews are most welcome!_


	17. Fighting Free Magic

_A/N: I was just twiddling my thumbs one evening, when _suddenly_ a plot bunny ambushed me and went for my jugular. I tried to fend it off, but the darn thing just wouldn't let go. Guess who won the fight? To cut a long story short, I think that "Five Great Charters" will now be over 30 chapters upon completion. Damn you, wretched plot bunnies!_

**Fighting Free Magic**

Abhorsen watched in amusement as Prince Dantalion attempted to shave with a cracked little mirror, some soap, and a knife. The expression of acute discomfort on the younger man's face was simply priceless. Abhorsen was used to roughing it, what with tramping all over the countryside in his younger days. But a Prince of the Kingdom who usually stayed at the palace was not used to such sordid living conditions.

Dantalion cut himself again, and cursed fluently.

Abhorsen grinned, and put another log on the fire. It was three hours to dawn. "I didn't know that men of such high birth knew that one," he remarked. The younger man merely glared at him, and went back to his shaving.

Around other flickering campfires, soldiers were eating and drinking and talking quietly. The usual camaraderie from earlier in their journey had dissipated now that they'd reached their destination. For many years, small villages on the outskirts of the Great Sickle Wood had complained of attacks by Dead hands. These attacks had never been serious, with at most a dozen of the things stumbling into the villages, and as such had not required the attention of Lord Abhorsen. He had more important things to do. He was only one man, and the Kingdom was full of the Dead and Free Magic scum. And so the King had sent out troops of soldiers to deal with the problem – which was all standard procedure – but every man who had been sent to investigate this relatively minor problem had simply disappeared. After the third troop had vanished, the King had determined that Abhorsen himself was needed for this.

And so here he was now, accompanied by a full contingent of men with the Prince as their Captain. "Have you had much experience fighting?" Abhorsen asked suddenly, not caring how rude he sounded.

"Yes," the Prince said through gritted teeth. "I was a champion swordsman, in my day."

"_In your day_?" Abhorsen repeated, raising his eyebrows as high as they would go. "You cannot be past your prime so soon, Lord Prince. How old are you, anyway?"

"Thirty," the younger man grunted, returning to his shave.

Abhorsen leaned back against a stump, putting his hands behind his head. "You're still young, then," he pointed out, "so don't go talking about what happened 'in your day'. It's still your day. As for me, I'm nearly forty. How do you think talk of 'your day' makes _me _feel?"

Prince Dantalion said nothing, but Abhorsen thought that the younger man nearly smiled. So, there was some hope for him yet.

"How is your family?" Abhorsen asked, casting about for a topic that the Prince would actually like to talk about.

The young man really did smile this time. "They are well," he acknowledged, but did not care to elaborate.

Abhorsen nearly rolled his eyes, deciding that it was up to him to keep this pathetic excuse for a conversation going. "You and your wife had a child last summer, did you not?" he asked. "Girl or boy?"

"A girl," said Dantalion. "Her name's Farelle."

"Does your wife want more children?" the older man questioned. "I know mine does, but Cassiel's birth was so hard that the midwife thinks it unlikely."

The Prince shrugged. "We are trying for another," he said. "Penemue wants a son."

"Good luck with that," snorted Abhorsen indelicately. Malia would kill him if he ever snorted like that in front of her, but nobody cared what you did in a soldier's camp. "If your wife's anything like her mother, you might have to go through a lot of daughters before getting a son."

The younger man cringed involuntarily. "I thank the stars every day that my wife is _not _like her mother."

Abhorsen threw back his dark head and laughed. "Lady Tirelle is quite a terror, isn't she?" he chortled. "I could never understand why she had so many lovers. A man would be mad to bed a woman like that."

They both laughed this time, and Abhorsen did not immediately notice when a gangly dark-haired boy stepped into the firelight. "Cassiel!" he said to his son. "Welcome back! What have you found out?"

"The villagers say that the Dead come out of the trees," answered Cassiel, pointing at the edge of the Great Sickle Wood. "Only a dozen or so at a time, but all the parties of men who have gone into the wood to hunt for them haven't returned. Now they just board up their windows at night and try to ignore it."

"And we're camped right on the edge of the wood waiting for the Dead to come," the Prince said grimly. "Not exactly the smart thing to do."

"It's smarter than going into the trees," Abhorsen countered brightly. He was used to fighting the Dead, and grim conditions never dampened his spirits. "Besides, the last three troops who came here didn't have _me_ with them, did they?"

The Prince looked like he was trying very hard not to roll his eyes. Abhorsen reached out to turn a log on the fire, when his Death sense twitched. He paused. A second later, Cassiel's head jerked up as he sensed it too. Prince Dantalion noticed their expressions, and his hands shot automatically to his shortswords.

"Dead hands," Abhorsen confirmed.

The Prince let out a low whistle, and at the signal soldiers got to their feet and readied their weapons. In addition to being excellent fighters, Dantalion's men were all accomplished Charter mages, and half-sketched spells crackled at their fingertips to be cast at a moment's notice.

All was silent, with not even a breath of wind in the trees. Then Abhorsen heard it: the unmistakable shuffling tramp of rotting feet. He drew his sword as Prince Dantalion whistled another command, and the soldiers efficiently stepped into formation, with spearmen at the front and archers behind. Abhorsen frowned when he realized that several rows of soldiers were obscuring his view. He wanted to be on the frontlines!

He turned angrily to the Prince, who shook his head sternly. "No, my Lord," he said, anticipating Abhorsen's protests. "You're much too valuable to the Kingdom."

Abhorsen glowered but said nothing. It would look undignified to yell at the Crown Prince in front of the soldiers and his son. Instead, he turned to face the trees, tapping his foot with impatience.

The first wave of Dead staggered from the shadows. Abhorsen's breath caught in his throat, and several of the soldiers gasped: there must have been a hundred of them! Prince Dantalion barked out an order, and Charter spells blazed through the air. The Dead gurgled as they were hit, and staggering into one another, flesh sizzling. Arrows flew over the heads of the spearmen, piercing rotten limbs.

"These are not just a dozen or so Dead hands!" Abhorsen yelled at the Prince over the tumult.

The younger man nodded. "It's an ambush," he confirmed grimly. "There must be a necromancer in there somewhere."

"Sir!" A lieutenant had pushed his way to the Prince's side. He held up a tarnished helmet adorned with a tattered feather that had at one time been red. "You should take a look at this, my Lord Prince. Many of the Dead are wearing them."

Prince Dantalion took the helmet and examined it closely. "This was worn by a soldier of the King," he murmured.

Abhorsen was suddenly hit with a horrifying realization. "They must be from the three troops that vanished here!" he cried. "The necromancer used smaller attacks on the villages to lure out larger forces, which he killed to add to his Dead army."

"And now in addition to who knows how many villagers," Dantalion murmured, "He has three of the King's troops under his control." Abhorsen and the Prince stared at one another, then at the same moment they whirled around to join the action. Abhorsen drew his bells, and he could hear Prince Dantalion shouting orders. Facing the combined strength of Charter magic, bells, and arrows, only a few of the Dead had actually managed to reach them, and these were quickly dispatched with swords and spells.

There was a lull in the fighting, but Abhorsen knew that this first attack had been merely a test of their strength, and that a larger fighting force would be coming soon.

He was right. Frightened murmuring ran through the ranks, and Abhorsen stared as hundreds of Dead hands emerged from the woods under the light of the half-moon.

"Soldiers!" the Prince yelled. "Stand fast! Have courage, and serve your Kingdom!"

To Abhorsen's surprise, the soldiers immediately stopped muttering and stood at attention, jaws set resolutely as the wave of Dead approached. It hadn't really been that good of a speech. He looked questioningly at Prince Dantalion, who gave a wan smile. "The power of command flows in my veins," the young man explained quietly. "Sometimes that can be a very useful thing."

Abhorsen weighed his options carefully, and watched as the Dead stumbled towards them. "I'm going into Death," he announced, and both the Prince and his son stared at him.

"You – you're _what_?" Dantalion spluttered.

"I'm going to find the necromancer and kill him," explained Abhorsen slowly in a voice usually reserved for very small children. He received a glare strong enough to burn a hole in his forehead, and amended his tone. "Once I do, these Dead hands will have lost all direction," he explained. "It's our best chance of defeating him. I'm counting on you to hold them off while I'm gone."

The Prince nodded slowly, and Abhorsen prepared himself to go into Death. A small hand on his arm stopped him, and he looked down at his son. "I'm going with you," the boy said stubbornly. "I can help."

Abhorsen shook his head. "No, you're not," he replied, voice firm. "And no, you can't. Not yet, and not now. You're staying right here behind the lines."

"I'm ten years old!"

"Precisely," the exasperated father said. "You're ten years old. And besides," he continued at Cassiel's mutinous expression, "We have only one set of bells between us."

"If I had my own bells, would you take me?"

"Of course," Abhorsen lied.

He closed his eyes, and went into Death.

Abhorsen moved quickly through the waters, knowing that the soldiers could not hold the Dead off forever. He struck out, every sense on the alert for any sign of the necromancer. After an indefinite amount of time, a faint metallic smell tickled Abhorsen's nose. He drew his sword and stalked forward through the grey river.

He could see the necromancer, a broad-shouldered figure wearing old-fashioned armour. The other man was in the midst of raising more Dead spirits to do his bidding, and was so immersed in his work that he did not notice Abhorsen until the other man was twenty paces away. The necromancer suddenly spun around and shot out his hand, and a ball of yellow fire blazed from his fingers. Abhorsen managed to deflect it with a spell of his own, and felt the heat scorch his arm.

"Well met, Lord Abhorsen," the necromancer said in a deep voice. "I did not think you would come here to meet me. I thought you would remain in Life, aiding those pitiful soldiers."

"I'm sorry to disappoint you," Abhorsen replied amiably. "Are you quite done with your speech, or will I have to wait a little longer to kill you?"

The necromancer stared at him from under his gilded helmet, which sported an unfamiliar spiralling logo. "So confident," he hissed, drawing his sword. It was a corrupted blade, and looking at those spiky runes made Abhorsen's stomach flip-flop unpleasantly. "You and the bratty little Prince fell right into my trap, did you not?"

Abhorsen blinked in surprise. "So this – all of this – was just a plan to kill me and Prince Dantalion? _Why_?"

The necromancer did not reply, and the two enemies circled each other slowly. "No matter," said the necromancer. "You have just made my job much easier, Lord Abhorsen. Killing people one by one is less problematic than killing them together. Would you not agree?"

"I wouldn't know," sneered Abhorsen. "I don't kill _people_, you see – only Free Magic scum."

They ran at one another, swords raised, and Abhorsen staggered back under a blow from the necromancer. This guy was strong! He ducked another deadly swipe, and darted in to slash at his opponent's ribs. His sword clanged harmlessly against the necromancer's armour, and he cursed. All he had managed to do was dent his enemy's breastplate and create a lot of sparks. He barely parried another blow, stumbling to the side. The cold water pulled at his legs, and he just managed to keep his footing in the icy current as the necromancer backed off for another charge. Abhorsen stared, panting, at his armoured opponent. There had to be some vulnerable spot…

The necromancer rushed him again. At the last moment, Abhorsen straightened up and extended his arm, executing a perfect stop-thrust that left his right side wide open. The swordblade ripped through the necromancer's throat, impaling him like a chicken on a spit.

With the man still skewered by the end of his sword, Abhorsen drew Saraneth one-handed, flipped it, and rang. He considered ringing Dyrim to question the necromancer about the plot to kill him and the Prince, but decided against it. He did not know how the soldiers were doing on the edge of the Great Sickle Wood, and perhaps they needed him. Instead, he rang Saraneth and Ranna together, freezing the necromancer in place. He would come back to question him later. With a satisfied look at his handiwork, Abhorsen turned and jogged back to the border of Death.

Abhorsen opened his eyes and wiped frost from his eyelashes. He could see the soldiers slaying the Dead hands, who were running wild now that the necromancer was bound. Prince Dantalion, who had been alerted by his movements, strode to his side.

"It's done," Abhorsen told the younger man, shaking icicles from his clothing. "The necromancer told me something strange," he carried on. "He said that he was here to kill you and me – I don't know why. I've bound him, and will question him later. It looks like it was all a trap."

The Prince frowned. "You shouldn't be so reckless," he snapped, utterly surprising Abhorsen. "If indeed his plan was to kill you, then how smart was it to go into Death alone? He got you right where he wanted!" As if to punctuate this point, Cassiel turned up to glare at his father, apparently still furious at being left behind.

Abhorsen looked from one angry face to another, then gave a fatalistic shrug. "It worked, though. Didn't it?"

Cassiel and The Prince gave him disgusted looks, but said nothing. They did not need to – their expressions told him everything. The Prince walked off to speak with his Lieutenant, and Cassiel left to pack his belongings for the trek home. As soldiers bustled around him, Abhorsen puzzled over why the necromancer had wanted to kill only himself and the Prince. What did they have in common?

Behind the lines, the sun peered over the eastern horizon.

_A/N: Do any of you know where you've heard Cassiel's name before? Well, you'll find out in chapter 19, I think. I've given you a little hint already. Kudos to anyone who answers correctly!_


	18. The Assassin

_A/N: Thanks for the reviews, kat3e and Pied Flycatcher! You guys rock!_

_Warning: this chapter contains torture. I was actually crazy enough to research medieval torture, and what I found made me pretty queasy. I've chosen one of the least-gruesome torture devices (and a well-known one), to avoid any emotional scarring on the part of my readers!_

**The Assassin**

Dantalion walked through the airy halls of the palace, lost in the pages of a novel. It was a comic story – unusual for him – for he was vainly trying to cheer himself up. He had just received a message from Abhorsen that the necromancer who had attacked them at the Great Sickle Wood was nowhere to be found in Death. Abhorsen had stipulated that someone else had come along and finished him off, but whether or not that person was involved in this strange plot was anyone's guess.

A scream shattered the stillness – Penemue's scream!

The Prince dropped his book and broke into a wild run. More women were screaming even as he skidded into a nearby courtyard, drawing his swords in one swift movement. His eyes flicked around the open square, taking in his cowering wife surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting, and a group of struggling men.

The Prince knelt down beside Penemue, who sobbed into his neck. She was holding little Farelle, who gazed up at them both with wide blue eyes. "Shh…" Dantalion murmured soothingly, all the while wondering what on earth had happened. He beckoned to her ladies-in-waiting. "Take my wife to her room to lie down," he instructed, and the frightened-looking women curtseyed.

When the ladies had left the courtyard, Dantalion turned to a familiar face. "Sir Halban," he barked. "What happened here?"

The moustached knight mopped his brow, and gestured to a struggling figure held by four soldiers. "This man entered the courtyard," he explained. "He drew a knife and attempted to kill Princess Penemue."

Dantalion turned to stare at the assassin, who was dressed as a courtier and looked vaguely familiar. Rage such as he had never known welled up inside of him, but with an immense effort he tamped it back down. They would learn nothing if he choked this man in the middle of the courtyard. Keeping his composure, the Prince nodded coldly at Halban. "See what you can find out." The moustached man bowed and led the way out of the courtyard, with the four soldiers dragging the stranger between them.

One of the remaining soldiers, a lieutenant, approached the Prince. "He was armed with this, sir."

Dantalion accepted the long knife, which was quite unremarkable in its appearance. The weapon offered no clues whatsoever as to the man's identity, except for a rough spiral scratched on the hilt. He did not recognize the symbol, if in fact it meant anything at all, and he supposed that the assassin could have been hired by anyone. But the fact that he had gotten so close…

"Any idea how he gained entrance?" he asked. His voice was harsh, and he was still shaken by the incident. His wife and daughter had been within reach of that man! How could this have happened?

The soldier bit his lip nervously. "It's not certain–"

"Well, make it certain!" Dantalion yelled, finally snapping. The lieutenant executed a crisp salute, and turned to direct the rest of the soldiers in a search.

The Prince wandered around the courtyard, looking for any clue as to how the assassin managed to come so far without being detected. There were no signs to be seen, and Dantalion leaned his head wearily against the stone wall. He took a deep breath and sighed, but stopped short when he sensed something – the faintest hint of a metallic reek floated on the air. Dantalion sucked in his breath: Free Magic! But the man had not been a sorcerer – he was quite sure of that.

The Prince tried to puzzle it out, but could come to no conclusions. He slapped the wall impatiently, before turning and instructing the soldiers to find out all that they could. Still lost in his thoughts, he made his way towards the steps that would lead him down to the dungeons.

As he descended the tight, spiralling staircase, faint screams reached his ears. It appeared that Sir Halban had not wasted any time.

The dungeons were empty, and Dantalion strode through the rows of dusty cells before pushing open a heavy wooden door. A soldier standing by nodded courteously at him as he walked through, and the door creaked shut behind him.

The assassin was on the rack, screaming with pain. The four soldiers were stationed around the room, along with Sir Halban. The Dungeon Master was also present, a thin man who, appropriately enough, looked rather like a skeleton. Dantalion approached the wooden machine, trying vainly to ignore the screams. The assassin's feet were manacled to the base of the rack, his wrists lashed to a roller that the Dungeon Master operated. He was clad only in his trousers, and sweat streaked his pale skin.

But something was very different about his face. He looked much younger now…

"This… _thing_ was disguised as Lord Vonare," Sir Halban explained, as if reading the Prince's thoughts. "It was a Free Magic illusion that came off as soon as we put him on the rack. That was how he managed to get so close." Dantalion nodded thoughtfully, wondering who had taken the trouble to disguise this young man.

"And look at this," the knight said, pointing at the assassin's left hip. Just below the trouser line, Dantalion could see a small tattoo of a counter clockwise spiral, no larger than his thumbnail. "We don't know what it means," Sir Halban continued, "but we think it's a mark of his group." In answer, Dantalion pulled out the assassin's weapon, which bore an identical symbol.

The Prince shot Halban a questioning glance, who shook his head grimly: the man had not talked – _yet_.

Dantalion nodded at the Dungeon Master, who loosened the roller. The assassin lay gasping for air, his arms wrenched above his head. The Prince peered down into the man's pain-filled face. "What is your name?" he asked.

The assassin clamped his mouth shut and shook his head. Dantalion glanced at the Dungeon Master, who tightened the roller. The man shrieked as his body was lifted off the rack, limbs straining as they stretched past their limit.

The Prince soon grew tired of the screams. Normally torture sickened him, but this man had tried to kill his family. He would show no mercy. Still, the incessant screaming was irritating, if nothing else. Dantalion walked over to the wall and leaned against it. "Find out his name," he told Sir Halban, and the knight nodded before turning back to the assassin.

For twenty minutes Dantalion watched as the wraithlike Dungeon Master worked his craft, while the assassin was reduced to a sobbing, incoherent, shrieking creature. Blood dripped from the man's swollen ankles and wrists where the skin had chafed away. His ribs stood out on his chest, and sweat dripped from his body. There was a long, sickening crack as one of his shoulders slowly dislocated. The other snapped a minute later. The Prince could scarcely stand to watch anymore. But then something articulate passed the young man's lips: "Aaa – locassss!" he yelled.

Dantalion straightened and held up his hand. The Dungeon Master eased the pressure, and the Prince walked up to the side of the rack. "Yes?" he asked.

"Alocas," the assassin gasped, panting heavily. "My name is Alocas."

"Good," Dantalion said in a calming tone of voice. "Good. And how old are you, Alocas?"

The man's face contorted in shame and agony. "I'm tw– twenty."

Dantalion glanced at Halban, who took over the questioning: "Who do you work for?" The young assassin remained silent. "Is it an Ancelstierran?" the knight tried. No answer. "A Free Magic sorcerer, perhaps? Or a northern lord?" Still the assassin said nothing. Sir Halban waved his arm, and the Dungeon Master tightened the roller.

The assassin arched his back as his body was lifted clear off the rack once more. Tears streamed freely down his cheeks, and the noise he was making was incredible. After ten minutes of this, Dantalion's head was pounding. "Sir Halban, please!" he finally snapped. "Can't you shut him up? Either that or make him talk!"

Halban did not move, but the Dungeon Master locked the roller in place and drifted to a cupboard. Its depths were thankfully hidden by shadow, and Dantalion tried not to think of what could be in there. The skeletal man emerged with a leather-wrapped stick, which he forced between the young assassin's teeth, and a wicked-looking iron poker, which he placed in the stove to heat.

Dantalion stared at him, but Sir Halban seemed unperturbed. The knight had spent more time in the dungeons than the Prince, and had probably seen more of this sort of thing. In fact, this was Dantalion's first time in this wretched place, and he was sure that he did not like it one bit. The Charter Mages had yet to create a truth spell, but Dantalion would be glad once they did.

"Are you going to tell us who sent you?" Sir Halban asked gently. The man stared back, breathing hard around the gag. Apparently he wasn't about to cooperate. The moustached knight gave a tiny sigh of disappointment. "I thought not." He gestured at the Dungeon Master, who removed the poker from the stove. The tip was now red-hot.

The assassin's eyes widened and he started to struggle. Of course, stretched out as he was with two dislocated shoulders, he got nowhere. The Dungeon Master slowly brought the tip of the poker closer and closer to the man's skin, and Dantalion could feel his own body tensing. Finally, with the tip hovering a fraction of an inch away, the assassin began to shake his head fervently, tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes. Sir Halban removed the gag, and the Dungeon Master put away the poker, looking slightly disappointed. The roller was loosened, and the man lay limp on the rack, sobbing brokenly.

Dantalion looked away in embarrassment, but Sir Halban placed his hand on the young man's forehead. "Shh…" he soothed in a fatherly manner. "It's all right… shh…"

When the assassin had regained a little bit of composure, he managed to gasp, "N… nec… necromancer."

The Prince leaned over the side of the rack opposite from Halban. "A necromancer sent you?" he repeated. When the young man nodded, he burst out, "But _why_?"

"It's a… a plot," the assassin panted. He licked his dry lips. "A plot to… eliminate the… the Charter bloodlines…"

Dantalion glanced at Sir Halban, who was looking as serious as he had ever seen him. "And your tattoo is the mark of this faction?"

The assassin gave a feeble nod. "We're called… the Freemen. Followers of the Ancient Ways…"

"Who is involved?" the Prince demanded.

The young man closed his eyes. "Necromancers… sorcerers… witches… and people like me. We're hired help. Mercenaries." He paused for breath. "A necromancer is in charge… I think…"

Dantalion leaned forward and grabbed the man's chin, shaking him lightly to keep him from passing out. "A few moons ago a necromancer tried to kill me and Lord Abhorsen," he said harshly. "Was that part of the same plot?"

The young man frowned in thought. "You are…?"

"Crown Prince Dantalion," he answered impatiently.

"A failed attempt to kill the Prince and Abhorsen…" repeated the assassin weakly. "A few moons ago? Yes… that would have been Saleos. The necromancer Saleos… He was one of us. Them. A Freeman… He was captured. We killed him."

The Prince let go of the man's chin, his legs feeling suddenly weak. This was a whole lot bigger than he or Abhorsen had imagined.

"Will you cooperate?" Sir Halban was asking. At the young man's assent, he nodded to the Dungeon Master. "Release him."

The man let out muffled screams as Halban popped his shoulders back into their sockets, but Dantalion hardly noticed. He was actually on his way out of the room when he stopped at another sudden thought. He turned to stare at the assassin, who was sitting on the edge of the rack nursing his bloody wrists. "I have one more question," he said. "Why did you attack my wife? Why her, and not myself or the King?"

"That was not my mission," the young man answered reluctantly. "Saleos was meant to take care of you, and the King is too well-protected."

"But Penemue is not of Royal Blood," Dantalion countered, his voice wavering out of control.

The assassin lowered his gaze to the ground. "No," he whispered. "But your daughter is."

Dantalion stared at the young man. So his wife had not been the target of the attack, after all. It had been his one-year-old baby girl. Dantalion clenched his fists, and for a split second he considered killing the man right there. Instead, he turned on his heel and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

Now was not the time for personal vendettas. He needed to send Abhorsen a message, and then speak to his father about this.

_A/N: Ooh, the plot is underway! Blame it on my plotbunnies. So, next chapter you'll find out why Cassiel's name is so familiar._


	19. Cassiel's Bells

_A/N: To everyone who reviewed, you guys are great. School's getting kind of rough, so I really appreciated hearing from you. Aptly enough, "guesser" was the only one who guessed where they've heard Cassiel's name before. Sorry, buddy – you're thinking of Kalliel. Nice try, though!_

_The title probably gives it away: In Lirael, Mogget says this to Sam: "Having been associated with the family for so long, I am simply aware of when my services are required. For example, when a new set of bells appears, suggesting that an Abhorsen-in-Waiting is ready to come into his inheritance. Having woken, I simply followed the bells. But the return of _Cassiel's bells_ did not waken me."_

_Oh, and four years of relative inactivity have passed since the last chapter._

**Cassiel's Bells**

The rough bark felt good under Cassiel's fingers. He took a firmer grip, and swung himself up to the next branch. Wiping sweaty hair out of his eyes, the boy inched along the branch until he could see just over the wall, and squinted at the eastern riverbank.

Something was not right: he could see a flash of red on the stone ledge of the opposite shore. A colour like that did not belong here. With a start, Cassiel realized that it was a man. His tunic was scarlet, as was the large plume decorating his hat, and he was gazing dubiously at the stepping stones.

As he watched the man take a running leap for the first stepping-stone, Cassiel wondered what he should do. His mother was tending the herb garden, and his father was up in the study writing some book. By the time he went and got one of them, this stranger would have reached the house. The boy bit his lip, and looked frantically around the island from his perch in the branches. His sharp eyes caught sight of something white coming down the steps of the house.

"Mogget!" the boy called, trying to conceal his relief.

The albino dwarf trotted onto the north lawn and stopped under the fig tree. "What is it, young master?" he asked sardonically as he craned his head. "Always happy to come when called. No trouble for me. None at all."

Cassiel ignored Mogget's derisive tone and jumped easily down from the tree. "A man is coming to the house over the stepping-stones," he explained as he straightened up. "He will be here soon!"

The dwarf cocked an eyebrow in a casual, unhurried fashion intended to provoke the boy. "And what did he look like?"

"Dressed in red, with a red feather on his hat – Shouldn't you be running for my father or something?" Cassiel demanded. It was all he could do to keep from hopping from foot to foot.

"No," Mogget said, his voice so calm that Cassiel wanted to throw something at him. "You are describing one of the King's messengers. Since he got through the passageway guarded by sendings, you can assume that he's friendly. You may as well welcome him."

The boy hesitated for a second, then shrugged and headed for the eastern courtyard, followed by the dwarf. What the dwarf had said made sense, although he would never admit that aloud. He reached the gate in the limestone wall just as the messenger landed, flailing, on the wooden platform. Cassiel stopped at the top of the steps and watched the messenger wring water from his hat. The scarlet plume looked very bedraggled.

"Welcome to Abhorsen's House," Cassiel announced, barely suppressing a grin. The messenger was completely soaked by the spray from the river.

The man jumped at being addressed, and peered up at him before quickly bowing low. "Thank you," he panted. He gulped for air, then settled his ruined hat on his head. "Those stepping-stones are quite the challenge, aren't they?" he asked, swinging a large bag onto his shoulder.

The messenger cheerfully mounted the steps, and Cassiel led him into the courtyard. Behind them Mogget shut the gate, grumbling the whole while under his breath as the messenger stared at the odd little creature.

"Come over to the house," the boy said, deigning to cut across the north lawn instead of following the red brick path. "I'll get my father."

"Actually," the messenger declared as they strolled over the grass, "I am here to see you."

The boy burst into laughter and carried on walking – but stopped still in the shade of the fig tree when he realized that the messenger was no longer at his side. He turned back to the man, who looked amused, although his eyes were serious. "You're… not joking," Cassiel said finally.

"You _are _Cassiel Abhorsen, are you not?" asked the messenger, wrinkling his forehead.

"Yes," the boy answered, still surprised by the news. Why would anyone want to see him? Everyone who came here was always clamouring for an audience with Abhorsen, usually to complain about some Free Magic creature that threatened their village. Cassiel had just assumed that this messenger was here on similar purpose.

The man smiled at his obvious bewilderment. "I have a gift for you." He unslung his pack and lifted out a bundle wrapped in green cloth. Cassiel accepted the bundle with faltering hands. "Go on", the messenger encouraged.

Cassiel glanced at Mogget, who was watching the whole thing intently, then opened the bundle. He gasped aloud in surprise. In his hands was a bandolier of bells!

He was only fourteen years old, yet Cassiel had already accompanied his father into Death on countless occasions, and a few times had even wielded one of the bells. He knew many of the different types of rings already, and was familiar with the instruments of a necromancer. But to have a bandolier all for his own…

"Who – what –?" he stammered, mentally cursing his temporary loss of coherent speech.

The messenger grinned. "They were crafted by the Wallmakers especially for you," he said kindly. "One of the Clayr's daughters – Neryl, I believe – Saw that you would be getting your own bandolier of bells, so the King ordered these to be made. All the best Wallmakers, like Masters Felio and Nehima, helped to make them. They say the old Wallmaker herself had a hand in the work. Do you like them?"

"Very much," Cassiel answered happily. He buckled the bandolier over his surcoat, adjusting the straps. The weight of the bells felt oddly familiar. But he supposed that was because he had secretly tried on his father's bandolier several times when he was younger. Some children played at slaying dragons. He had played at banishing the Dead.

"Cassiel! _What are you doing on the grass?_"

The boy turned to see his mother hurrying over to them. "Mother!" he said in a rush, hoping that their visitor would distract her. "This is a messenger from King Berillan. He brought me a gift."

The messenger swept off his hat and sank into an elaborate bow. "It is an honour, Lady Malia," he said impressively. "I apologize for treading on your magnificent lawn."

The woman smiled at his propriety. "Won't you come in?" she asked politely. "I am sure that my husband would like to speak with you." Cassiel nearly rolled his eyes. It was amazing how his mother could change from bellowing dragon-lady to gracious hostess in the blink of an eye.

The messenger chatted amicably with the lady of the House, and Cassiel followed the adults over the north lawn to the door. His mother lightly scolded him for walking on the grass and not keeping to the paths, and sent him to wash his hands and face. As the boy poured cold water into a basin, he reflected that the tongue-lashing had not been as severe as he had expected. Thank goodness for visitors!

When Cassiel entered the hall, still wearing his new bandolier, the messenger was seated at the table with a steaming cup of tea in his hands. Cassiel's parents were listening as the messenger explained the purpose of his visit. "It was Neryl, daughter of the Clayr, who Saw your son's bells," he was saying. "Naturally, they were crafted by the Wallmakers. They are an exact copy of your own, Lord Abhorsen, except slightly smaller and not quite so powerful."

Abhorsen turned his dark eyes on his son. "Come here, Cassiel," he said softly.

The boy walked around to his father's side of the table. The man reached out with a white finger and placed it lightly on Ranna, as if feeling for the power within the bell. He did the same for each of the bells, ending on Astarael.

"Are they dangerous?" Cassiel's mother asked, failing to keep the anxiety out of her voice.

Abhorsen shook his dark head. "They would be dangerous in the hands of someone untrained," he answered. "But Cassiel will be able to wield these. It will make teaching him my craft much easier, for one."

Malia bit her lip, but nodded her acceptance. "If a daughter of the Clayr Sees something, we will have to trust it," she sighed.

From where he stood by Abhorsen's chair, Mogget let out a small snort. "Cassiel's bells," the dwarf muttered. "What will they think of next?"

"Yes, thank you, Mogget," Lord Abhorsen snapped, and the dwarf wisely stopped talking.

The messenger finished his tea with a slurp, and rose from his place. "Well, I should be going," he pronounced. "I left my horse at the mouth of the passageway with the sending, and I hope nobody has stolen him. Is there – um – any easier way to get back to shore without going over those stepping-stones?"

"Not really," Abhorsen replied without the least hint of guilt. Indeed, Cassiel thought that his father sounded quite cheery. He was probably picturing this man leaping from stone to stone, sodden hat in hand. The observatory was really the best place in the House from which to watch visitors come and go.

"I will show you out," Malia said, rising also. Unlike her husband and son, she did not appreciate the source of entertainment that the stepping-stones could be.

When they had left the room, Cassiel sat down at the table. He stared at his father's white hands which looked all the paler for being smudged with black ink. "Working on that book?" the boy asked, wrinkling his nose.

The corner of Abhorsen's mouth twitched into a smile. "Yes, I was," he answered. "_That book_, as you so graciously call it, will be very useful."

"I'm learning all I need to from you," Cassiel protested.

"You will not be the last Abhorsen," the man shrugged. "Years from now, one of your descendents will be doing my job. And you and I will not be there to teach them all we know about Death, and the bells, and Free Magic creatures. If I write a book like this, then they will be able to find out anything they need to know."

"Won't they have their fathers to tell them?" asked Cassiel.

"Some of them might not be so lucky," Abhorsen pointed out. A brief silence fell between them. Then Abhorsen reached out, and lightly touched Cassiel's bandolier. "They look well on you," he smiled. That smile widened into a grin at a sudden thought: "Tell you what – why don't we put them to the test next time I get a message about a Free Magic creature?"

"_Really?_"

"Really," Abhorsen promised, just as eager as his son. "Let's see if a Hish can stand up to two Saraneths!"

Cassiel was struck by a sudden horrifying thought. "But what about mother?"

His father's smile faltered a little. "She might have to be persuaded," Abhorsen admitted, "but if you're to take my place when you grow up, it's best if you train with me."

A small cackle startled them both. They had completely forgotten that Mogget was still in the room. "Good luck with 'persuading' Lady Malia of anything," the dwarf snorted.

"Persuade me of what?"

Abhorsen, Cassiel, and Mogget looked up to see the woman standing in the doorway. Lord Abhorsen forced a wide smile that, to Cassiel, didn't look convincing at all. "Hello, my dear," his father said rather weakly, and Malia's eyes narrowed instantly with suspicion. Cassiel sighed heavily; this was already off to a bad start. He contemplated stealing out of the room, but decided that staying to watch his father try to squirm his way out of this one would be vastly entertaining.

As Abhorsen blushed and stuttered under his wife's steely gaze, a sending drifted into the Hall and handed a sealed scroll to the master of the house. Cassiel's father seized the opportunity for escape and opened it right there at the table. As he read the message his face went white – whiter than usual, that is.

Cassiel wondered what could be in the message. The scroll was the sort that could be tied to the feet of messenger-pigeons, and the seal was red wax stamped with a crown – an urgent message from Belisaere, then.

"What is it, darling?" Malia asked, all thoughts of hard questions forgotten.

Abhorsen gulped. "It's from the Prince," he said shakily. "He writes that the Wallmaker's old plans for the Great Stones have been stolen." Cassiel's mouth dropped open in shock.

"Hmph," snorted Mogget from his corner. "That scatterbrained old woman should keep a closer eye on her things."

They all ignored him. Abhorsen stuffed the message into his pocket, and the chair scraped as he got up from the table. "I need to leave as soon as possible," he told the sending, who bowed and left to make preparations. "I've been summoned to the palace," Cassiel's father explained to his family as he looked around distractedly, wondering what he should do first.

"Can I go with you?" Cassiel asked eagerly.

Abhorsen paused and looked at the boy. Cassiel's mother watched nervously, saying nothing. "All right," Abhorsen finally agreed. "But this is very urgent business. You'll have to keep up, and you must remember your manners."

"I will," nodded Cassiel, scarcely believing his good fortune.

His father smiled. "Get ready quickly, then."

Cassiel whooped as he sped out of the Hall. He had his own bells, and he was accompanying his father on important business to the palace! Not even the sound of Mogget's uproarious laughter could spoil his good mood.

_A/N: Yay, Mogget! It was about time we saw him again, wouldn't you agree? He probably just spent the last few years sulking around the house. Now before I leave you, I want to ask: is there anything in particular you would like to see explained in this story? If I haven't thought of it yet, I'll try to work it in, and you'll get credit for the idea! I've got most of the plot mapped out already, but I want to make sure that I'm not missing anything before it's too late. Thanks so much!_


	20. To Hire a Spy

_A/N: First of all, to anyone who read my story "Bleak Birth", go and read the review that RKQS12 left for it. You'll have a laugh – I nearly fell out of my chair!_

_To everyone who reviewed the last chapter, I love you all and you deserve to be showered with gifts. But I'm a poor student so instead you get this chapter. That's something, isn't it? I appreciated hearing what you guys wanted to read about – except EvilDonut, who suggested that I assassinate King Berillan! I'll just pretend I didn't read that, shall I? Besides, I've already decided on which characters are going to die…_

**To Hire a Spy**

Abhorsen and Cassiel were wearing their best blue surcoats when they entered the palace. A servant immediately took them down one winding hall and then another, before finally throwing open the doors of what was apparently a conference room. Five people rose from their places around the table, and Abhorsen bowed shortly.

"We're here," he said, rather unnecessarily. This was urgent business, and the quicker they got introductions over with the better. "Cassiel, this is King Berillan. You've met him once before."

The boy shook the King's hand politely. "Hello, sir."

"It's been a long time ago," smiled the King.

"Prince Dantalion you know, and Acting Clayr Princess Penemue."

The blond woman inclined her head. "We danced at my wedding," she reminded the boy. "Well met, Abhorsen-in-Waiting."

Abhorsen paused in his introductions, and shot the woman a curious look, but the Acting Clayr merely gave him a bland smile that reminded him eerily of Tirelle. "This is Ghidreth, the Wallmaker," he continued, and Cassiel shook her hand as well. "And that is… er…" Abhorsen blinked in confusion as he stared at a person he had never seen before in his life.

"My assistant Nehima," Ghidreth put in helpfully, eyes twinkling at his consternation.

The petite blonde woman walked right up to Abhorsen and seized his hand in a surprisingly strong grip. She wore a Wallmaker's brown leather vest over her blue dress.

"A pleasure, Master Nehima," Abhorsen managed to say without wincing at his crushed fingers.

"Likewise," the blonde Wallmaker said stiffly. The necromancer felt a flash of confusion – was she foreign royalty or something? Was that why she acted as if the entire world was filled with insipid wretches who deserved to be trembling at her feet?

Abhorsen turned to Ghidreth for clarification. "Your assistant?" he repeated. "What happened to Felio?"

"He is back at the Wall," the old woman said with a casual wave of her hand. "Felio and Nehima share duties now."

The seven people sat down around the table, and Abhorsen poured himself a glass of water. In his haste, some of it splashed onto his hand. "We came as quickly as we could," he said, adjusting his sword so that he could sit more comfortably. "So, any idea who stole the plans?"

Ghidreth shook her head. "We do not know. We have not received any demands for ransom, nor heard any mention of it since the event itself."

"We have our suspicions," the King said quietly. "Remember the assassination attempts four years ago, by a group calling themselves the Freemen?"

Abhorsen nearly spat out a mouthful of water. "You think that they are behind it?" he asked between explosive coughs. Cassiel pounded his back.

"It makes sense," said the Prince. "We believe that the group is still out there, biding their time and improving their plans since their last ones failed. If they had succeeded, you, I, and Farelle would be dead now."

Abhorsen had heard of the attempt on the little Princess' life when she had been just one year old. These Free Magic lunatics had to be stopped. "And why would the plans for the Great Stones be of any use to them?" Abhorsen asked.

The blonde Wallmaker, Nehima, spoke up loudly. "Well, it's _logical_, isn't it?" she said arrogantly. "The whole philosophy of the Freemen is to wipe out the Charter bloodlines, presumably to give their Free Magic more power. Breaking the Great Stones would obviously be just as effective as killing off one of the bloodlines." Abhorsen stared at the woman. She sure had a lot of nerve if she could say that in the presence of the King, the Crown Prince, the Acting Clayr, and himself. Most people got quite tongue-tied in their company.

"But is there a real danger?" Princess Penemue asked. "From the plans, could they somehow discover how to break the Stones?"

Everybody looked at Ghidreth, who nodded tiredly. "I'm afraid so," she sighed, "and you won't like the answer. The Stones can only be broken by the power of the Charter, which means either help from one of the Bright Shiners – which isn't likely – or blood spilt from the Royal Line, Lord Abhorsen, or Master Cassiel."

The company digested this information in silence.

"Okay," Abhorsen said finally. "We can't do anything about that. They have that information and they are going to act on it. We've built up our defences since the assassination attempts, though, haven't we?"

King Berillan nodded his grey head. "More protection spells and soldiers have been set around the palace, and Princess Merabel, my brother Orrofin, and his children in Ancelstierre are heavily guarded."

"And the wards on our House have been strengthened by the Wallmakers," acknowledged Abhorsen with a sigh. "I suppose we've done all that we can."

"Not _all_," the Wallmaker's assistant piped up impatiently. Abhorsen wasn't quite sure if he liked this confident young woman or not. "Don't you see that it's foolish to just sit and _wait_ for them to attack you?" she was saying, her wildly-gesticulating hands threatening to knock over her water glass.

"Nehima…" Ghidreth said with a hint of warning, and the younger Wallmaker had the good grace to look abashed. For about two seconds.

On the contrary, King Berillan looked most amused. "Actually," he said, "Master Nehima has a good point." He leaned forward and gazed around the table. "What we need is a spy among our enemy, so that we can receive word of planned attacks in advance." For some reason, Dantalion and Penemue looked anxious at this.

"That really is a good idea," Abhorsen agreed sarcastically, "but where in the Kingdom are we to find someone to spy for us? And even if they were crazy enough to agree, how would they infiltrate the Freemen?"

In answer, the King nodded to his son, who got up from his chair. Prince Dantalion opened one of the doors into the conference room, and Abhorsen craned his neck as two men walked in. One was old and sported an enormous moustache. The other was young with sandy hair. Both of the men bowed to the King before approaching the table, but they did not sit.

"Ladies and gentlemen," said King Berillan, "This is Sir Halban, one of my most trusted advisors –" the moustached man inclined his head politely, "– and this is the young Freeman who attempted to kill Princess Farelle four years ago."

Abhorsen stared at the assassin, then stared at the King. Was he insane? Judging from everyone's expressions, he wasn't the only one asking that question. Dantalion looked like he was seconds away from drawing his sword and running the would-be assassin through, and an ashen-faced Penemue had her hand on her husband's arm.

"Alocas has agreed to turn spy for us," King Berillan continued, ignoring the complete change of atmosphere in the room. He paused and looked about him vaguely. "Are there any objections?"

Everyone started talking at once. Apparently there were many objections. Order was only restored when Sir Halban seized the water pitcher and threw it across the room, shattering it against the wall.

"Thank you," said the King. "I will hear all of your opinions – one at a time, please."

The Prince pushed himself to his feet. "I would like everyone to know that I was against this decision from the start," he announced. Abhorsen rather thought so; he would have been quite worried if Dantalion supported the appointment of his daughter's would-be killer.

"I have something to say as well," spoke up Penemue. The blond woman's face was drawn and pale. She stood, and took a deep breath to brace herself. "I recently had a vision concerning this, and my mother and sisters caught glimpses of the same vision. We conferred together, and realized that we were seeing two possible futures – what will happen if we send Alocas back to the Freemen, and what will happen if we do not."

"What are these visions?" Nehima demanded.

Penemue shrugged helplessly. "The first shows a man in blue, standing alone before a burning body. The other shows a man in red, also before a burning body." She hesitated, then continued. "I do not know which choice leads to which end, but either way somebody will die."

The room was so silent that Abhorsen could hear Ghidreth's breathing from across the table.

Berillan cleared his throat. "Penemue informed Dantalion and I of this," he explained to everyone else. "We concluded that the red and blue suggest the two Charter bloodlines."

Abhorsen lowered his head, thinking hard. Following this logic, the man in red would be either Berillan or Dantalion, and the man in blue was either himself or a grown-up Cassiel. The question was, who were they burning?

"Could you… try again?" Sir Halban asked. He tightly held the arm of the assassin, who looked like he was about to faint. "I'm not quite sure how the Sight works," the old knight carried on, "but perhaps you could try and see if you can identify these men."

Penemue obediently closed her eyes. Her face tightened, and she murmured, "Shadows… shadows… fire and death…" The woman shuddered, and Dantalion leaped to his feet to support her. The Acting Clayr shook her head weakly. "I'm sorry. I could not See who they were. Neither could the rest of my family. The visions were too brief."

The King set down his glass of water with an air of finality. "As we do not know for sure what will happen, I suggest we try not to dwell upon Penemue's vision. Wondering which choice to make on the basis of so much uncertainty will only lead us further into doubt. I put it to you to decide our course of action. The question still remains: Do we send Alocas to the Freemen as our spy?"

Ghidreth was first to speak. "Do you have good reason to trust him, your Majesty?" she asked.

"I have spoken with Alocas many times," replied King Berillan. "I believe him to be reformed."

The Wallmaker inclined her head. "Then I will trust your judgment."

Abhorsen did not know quite what to think. Berillan was one of the shrewdest people he knew, and he had never before doubted the older man's convictions, but this was another matter entirely. Besides, the King was over sixty now, and it was quite possible that his judgment had been fooled.

The Wallmaker Nehima was shaking her head. "No, no, no," she muttered. "No offence meant, your Majesty, but it's crazy to trust something this important to someone with such a questionable background. Besides, if we truly turned him, what's to keep the Freemen from turning him back to their side? Or perhaps he'll play double agent. There are simply too many uncertainties."

Berillan looked next at Dantalion, who frowned. "You know my feelings in this," he said firmly. "They are unchanged."

His wife, on the other hand, shook her head. "I cannot decide," she admitted helplessly. "Knowing that each way will lead to grief… I'm sorry, but I cannot."

The King turned to his advisor. "Sir Halban?"

The moustached knight glanced at the young man at his side. "Your Majesty," he said hesitantly, "I watched this man being tortured. I saw him broken, and I helped do it. Without a doubt those Free Magic filth have ways to find out things that are crueller than ours. If we send him back, it's only a matter of time before he tells them what we're planning – whether or not he gives up the information voluntarily. He knows far too much. The safest route would be to execute him immediately. His crime against the Royal family alone merits such a punishment."

"I do not like execution, Sir Halban," Berillan answered grimly.

The old knight did not give up. "Lock him in the dungeons, then," he persisted. "Do anything – only keep him out of their hands."

The King turned to look at Abhorsen next, who weighed his words carefully. "I have my doubts," he admitted with a wry smile, "But I'm willing to take the chance if you are."

"Three votes for, three against, and one undecided," King Berillan summed up. He turned to the one person seated at the table who had not spoken yet. "Master Cassiel," he said. "What do you think?"

Abhorsen watched as his son started at being directly addressed, then looked at the assassin. The sandy-haired man stared back at the boy, pleading with his eyes for his life. He looked scared to death, and so far had done nothing much except stare at the ground to avoid hostile eye contact from nearly everybody. Finally, Cassiel nodded once. "I will obey my King," he said simply.

"Diplomatic answer," chuckled Berillan. "Very well. Sir Halban, make sure that Master Alocas is given everything he requires for his journey."

The knight bowed and pulled the spy after him by the arm. As soon as the two men had left the room, Prince Dantalion sprang to his feet. "I feel like going for a little walk," he announced in a casual tone that fooled nobody at all. "Lord Abhorsen, would you care to join me?"

"Delighted!" exclaimed Abhorsen, and they strolled out into the hall, ignoring the knowing looks that Berillan, Ghidreth, and Penemue were shooting at them.

Halban and the spy hadn't gotten far, and it took only a few seconds of running to catch up. Dantalion placed one hand on the young man's shoulder with an iron grip, and turned a hard glance upon the old knight. "Sir Halban," he said politely, "I'd like to have a word with our new spy, if I may." The older man nodded, and Dantalion tugged the spy into the nearest room, which turned out to be a gallery. Abhorsen followed them inside and shut the door.

Without even a word of introduction, the Prince shoved the younger man roughly against the wall, causing a painting to crash to the ground. Abhorsen was mildly surprised. Usually Dantalion was so controlled, but he supposed that the silent people were the ones to watch out for. When they snapped, they really _snapped_.

"Now you listen to me, you… you _Freeman_," Prince Dantalion snarled into the young man's frightened face. "If I hear the faintest rumour that you've turned against us, if I even _think _that you're betraying our side, then I won't hesitate to end your miserable little life. _Do you understand me_?"

The spy, Alocas, nodded fearfully, and turned his eyes to Abhorsen as if seeking help against this apparent madman.

Dantalion noticed. "Lord Abhorsen is a friend of mine," he continued in a deadly tone of voice. "He would almost certainly jump at the chance to help me squeeze the life out of you. Isn't that right, Lord Abhorsen?"

The necromancer was rather surprised at being addressed, but managed to chirp, "Oh, I'd enjoy nothing more, my Prince." The spy blanched.

"And," Dantalion continued, impaling Alocas with a ferocious glare, "he knows Death like no other man alive."

Abhorsen took a step forward, getting into the swing of things. "That's right," he affirmed merrily. "You think that pain ends after you die? Think again, boy. I could make your Death a living hell if I so wished." He ended with a cheery smile; this intimidation stuff could be quite fun.

The poor spy was trembling uncontrollably, and Abhorsen and Dantalion nodded to each other: he wouldn't be giving them any trouble. Abhorsen opened the door with a bow and the Prince roughly pushed the terrified man into the corridor, where an alarmed-looking Sir Halban was waiting.

As the old knight led the terrified spy away, Abhorsen turned to the Prince. "Now all we have to do is wait," he observed.

Dantalion made a face. "I hate waiting," he growled. "And to think, we're getting all of our information through that snivelling little turncoat."

"It really is a big risk," admitted Abhorsen. "But then, what would be the fun without it?"

They turned and headed back to the conference room, shoulders shaking in silent laughter.

_A/N: You know, I'm starting to feel kinda sorry for Alocas, poor kid. And in the next chapter we'll see how his return to the Freemen goes – I really wouldn't want to be in his shoes. So who will it be: the man in blue, or the man in red? You'll find out in, oh, seven chapters or so! I'm evil, I know._


	21. The Freemen

_A/N: The plot continues… (insert creepy music). Yes, here it is: the next chapter, as promised. Earlier today I had my first midterm exam, so the following few chapters may be a little late. I'll try to keep up, but in all fairness school comes first!_

**The Freemen**

"Hold it right there!"

Alocas half-raised his hands at his sides, all-too-aware of the knife digging into his back. He wasn't sure whether to be terrified or overjoyed – terrified because the Freemen's perimeter guards were notoriously bloodthirsty, or overjoyed because he could finally stop blundering around in the forest looking for their base camp.

Rough hands frisked him and removed his knife, and his arms were bound behind his back. "Now wait a minute," he said to the three guards as reasonably as he could. "I'm one of you–"

"Quiet!" a guard snarled. He glared at the spy suspiciously, but wrenched up Alocas' shirt, baring his left hip. The spiralling tattoo was there as promised, and the man frowned in disappointment. "All right," he said grudgingly. "We won't kill you – yet. Come along."

After a few minutes of stumbling over fallen logs and hidden tree roots, they reached a large clearing in the trees, the base camp for the Freemen.

Alocas was led around tents and cooking fires until they reached the heart of the campsite. "Sit here," the guard grunted, shoving him onto a bare patch of grass, and sauntered off while the other two guards remained to watch him. Alocas carefully avoided eye contact with everybody who went by. Instead he stared at a pinnacled tent a short distance away, recognizing it as the leader's quarters. Armed guards stood at the entrance, and everybody gave it a wide berth. Alocas had never personally met Gamori, the leader of the Freemen, but he had seen the mysterious necromancer from afar a couple of times. Perhaps Gamori wasn't leader of the Freemen anymore. Alocas had a lot to find out.

A tall figure stalked by bad-temperedly, and everybody else scuttled out of his way. Alocas recognized him as the necromancer Raum, Gamori's second-in-command, whose vile temper was as famous as his unpredictability. Saleos had been third-in-command, killed by Abhorsen four years ago. Actually, Raum had killed Saleos; Abhorsen had merely imprisoned the other necromancer in Death, which had made him a ridiculously easy target.

"It _can't_ be!"

Alocas glanced up, squinting against the sunlight. For a moment he did not recognize the young man grinning down at him, but then his face broke into a smile. "Danel!" he greeted his old friend.

The other man crouched down beside him, and clapped him on the shoulder. "Never thought I'd see you again," Danel admitted. "Since you disappeared, I've been partnered with that twit Morax. What happened to you?"

"I was caught," Alocas admitted. "They kept me in the dungeons for four years."

Danel whistled, running a hand through his curly hair. "Well, how did you escape?"

Alocas glanced up at the guards, who were giving rather good impressions of being statues even though he knew that they were listening to every word. A hundred excuses flashed through his mind, most of them absolutely ridiculous. He settled for the truth. "I… I agreed to turn spy," he admitted. "It was the only way to get them to set me free."

Both young men were silent, knowing that Alocas would be tortured. Danel sighed, his usual cheerfulness gone. "I'm sorry," he said miserably. "When I first got you involved, I didn't know it would be quite like this." He looked up as he was hailed by a passer-by, raising his hand in acknowledgement.

"You seem to be quite well-known now," Alocas noted.

His friend gave a lopsided smile. "I've been busy the last four years," he answered. "I moved up the ranks a bit, and even know Gamori. But I don't have enough influence to get you off the hook, Alocas."

"I know," the assassin said, shrugging fatalistically.

The two friends watched as an old woman shuffled through the campsite and ducked through the flap of the leader's tent. It was none other than the witch Carabia, one of Gamori's advisors.

Alocas idly wondered what would happen to him. No, actually he knew _what _would happen to him; it was just the matter of _when_ that seemed pertinent. He diverted himself by watching the people around the campsite. Several he recognized as old associates of his, fellow assassins and guards. Still others went about hooded and masked. These people were informants, whose identities were known only to the highest-ranking Freemen.

The unpleasant guard from before swaggered up to Alocas and grinned at him with his yellow teeth. "Come on," he grunted, pulling the young man to his feet. "Gamori wants to see you."

Alocas exchanged a terrified glance with Danel, who followed as he was led over to the leader's tent. The guards did not stop Danel, and Alocas guessed that his friend was more influential than he was letting on.

He was pushed through the tent and shoved down to his knees, just barely managing not to land on his face, and cursed his bound hands. The first thing he noticed was that he was kneeling on a very fine carpet. He did not dare raise his eyes. "This was the man we found on the outskirts, milady," the guard was saying. "He has the tattoo."

"I see," said a cold voice – a _woman's_ voice. "Thank you."

Alocas kept his eyes fixed on the carpet, and listened to the guards leave the room.

"Danel," said the woman next, "do you know this man?"

"Alocas was my partner for two years, milady," his friend answered. "He was captured when he tried to eliminate Princess Farelle. We assumed he was dead."

A pair of embroidered slippers entered Alocas' field of vision, and a long-nailed finger tilted his chin up. The young man found himself looking into the face of the leader of the Freemen. She was a beautiful woman, clothed in blue and gold silk and adorned with jewels. Pale skin and long flaxen hair reminded Alocas uncomfortably of a drowned corpse, or a leper. She could have been anywhere from twenty to fifty years old, although it was difficult to tell the true age of a necromancer.

"So, Alocas," she said quietly, but not at all kindly, "Tell us how you managed to find your way back to us."

Alocas gulped and licked his lips, trying to get moisture into his throat which had suddenly gone dry. "They released me, milady. I – I agreed to turn spy for them, if they would let me go."

The woman's eyes darkened to the colour of thunderous clouds, and Alocas knew that a storm was indeed about to break. "You are the first Freeman to have returned to us from captivity," she murmured. "Many are killed in the line of duty, especially now that the King has strengthened his guard. Others take their own lives, rather than let themselves be taken. But you did neither." She rested her hand lightly on his cheek, and it took all of his effort not to flinch. Her skin was ice-cold. "So why did they release you, I wonder?" she carried on, increasing the pressure of her fingers. "What information did you give them in order to make them trust you?" Alocas cried out in pain as her fingernails dug into his cheek, drawing blood. She released him with a sound of disgust, and he bowed his head, trying to shield his face with his hair and hopefully blend in with the carpet. If his hands had been free, he probably would have covered his head and cowered right there on the floor.

The woman strolled back to the other side of the tent, arranging her long turquoise skirts as she settled into an ornately-carved chair. At her right stood the tall threatening figure of Raum, and at her left was the old witch Carabia.

"Answer the question!" Raum bellowed, hand twitching to the massive sword at his side. "What did you tell them?"

"I – I didn't tell them anything," stammered Alocas as sweat prickled on the back of his neck.

Carabia cackled, tossing her shaggy mane of white hair. "Liar," the witch croaked gleefully, rattling her bone bracelets.

"The King is not stupid," Gamori agreed. "You told him something in order to be released. The question is, what?"

"I speak the truth," protested Alocas. They would press him into admitting everything if he started changing his story. His only hope was to make it a good one, and stick to it. "The King and his advisors found my tattoo and guessed that I was part of a plot to assassinate the Royal family. I told them that the members of my gang were all anonymous, but said that if they let me go I would turn spy for them and find out what I could. The King is a trusting fool. He believed that I was repentant, and convinced his advisors to let me go." Alocas hoped that this mixture of truth and fiction did not sound too unlikely.

Raum shook his head in disbelief. "They must have tortured you," he said flatly.

"Check me for scars, then," Alocas said earnestly.

The tall necromancer snorted, sounding like a wild horse about to trample something. "There are several methods that do not leave physical marks," he pointed out. "And I do believe you could have kept quiet. You lack the spine. You must have told them about the Freemen, or about our work to destroy the Charter." He turned to Gamori. "We should kill him, just to make sure."

"No!" Danel took a quick step forward and sank to one knee. "I will vouch for him, milady," the young man said grimly. "I've known Alocas most of my life, and he and I joined the Freemen together. I believe that he is telling the truth, and ask that you withhold interrogation and execution."

Gamori regarded the two young men thoughtfully. "I respect you judgement, Danel," the necromancer said finally. "But I cannot afford to take any chances."

"If he proves innocent," Danel answered, "I request that he become my spy partner and that Morax be reassigned."

"Spymaster Seare will determine that," thundered Raum, and Danel ducked his head. For a moment Alocas was worried that his friend had gone too far, but Gamori's next comment gave him a whole new set of worries.

"Guards!" the necromancer called. Two men armed with spears ducked through the entrance of the tent. "Take this man to Bune," the woman instructed, "and ask him to find out what he told the other side. You will remain here, Danel."

As Alocas was pulled to his feet, he caught sight of Danel's fearful expression. Truth be told, Alocas was afraid too. Bune was Gamori's Master Torturer. Sure, Alocas had known Bune before. The man had bought him a round of ale and gotten him stone drunk on his nineteenth birthday. But nobody disobeyed a direct order from Gamori, and he could expect no mercy from him.

As he was dragged out into the night, Alocas wondered somewhat gloomily which was worse: being racked by an enemy, or tortured by a friend.

_A/N: Does Alocas confess everything? Does he tell half-truths? Or does he remain silent? Well, I'm not going to tell you. I actually wrote the torture scene, and what followed after, but then decided it would be better not to post it. I'm cruel, I know – must be all this torture stuff I've had to research! My mind will be positively medieval by the end of this story._


	22. Coded Messages

_A/N: First of all, I must apologize for the extra-long wait. Unfortunately I am a student, which means that midterm exams are a little important. But now I can go back to writing! Hope you enjoy this chapter._

**Coded Messages**

King Berillan scratched his ear with the end of a quill pen, and peered down at the documents in front of him. His eyesight was getting worse. Even using the cut-glass spectacles that Ghidreth had crafted, he still had trouble reading for long periods of time. Or perhaps the handwriting of his subjects was becoming notoriously bad.

Berillan removed the spectacles – which he felt even more ridiculous wearing than his ceremonial crown – and rubbed at his eyes. He was over sixty now, a fact that was very frightening, and he was not quite as resilient as he used to be. He could scarcely perform his sword-exercises without feeling twinges of pain in his wrists, his hair was completely grey without a strand of brown, and now his eyes were failing him. Berillan was inclined to feel indignant at his body's betrayal, and feared that his recent aberrant moods of crabbiness were yet another sign of his aging.

There was a soft knock on the door, and a servant ducked inside. "The Crown Prince to see you," he announced ceremoniously, and Berillan nodded his consent.

Dantalion practically bounded into the room, slapping down a sheet of folded paper on the already-overflowing stacks that littered Berillan's desk. "There," said the Prince emphatically, stepping back and crossing his arms over his chest.

Berillan looked up at his son with a politely puzzled expression. He shifted a lopsided stack of papers from the desk to the floor, and pulled Dantalion's folded square of parchment towards him. "What's this?" he asked calmly.

"That," said the Prince with the air of someone unveiling his life's work, "is the first message to arrive from your _wonderful _spy."

"Alocas?" said the King, turning the square of parchment over in his hands. "He sent this?"

Dantalion waved his hand. "Yes. And about time, too. I was beginning to fear that he had turned against us. Perhaps I was wrong – he may have only turned double-agent."

Berillan ignored his son as he unfolded the message. The King watched his son out of the corner of his eye. Despite his snide comments, Dantalion could not help craning his head to get a closer look, and Berillan derived great satisfaction from the younger man's disappointment. "It's in code," stated Dantalion heavily.

"Certainly it is in code," smiled Berillan. "He and I devised it. We couldn't let this sort of information fall into the wrong hands, now, could we?" He smoothed the paper out on the top of his desk, and perched his spectacles on his nose.

"King Berillan," he translated for Dantalion's benefit, "I have reached the base camp of the Freemen, and they have taken me back into the fold. The leader is still the necromancer Gamori, and her lieutenant is the necromancer Raum. Under them they have about twenty witches and sorcerers, and fifty men, a few of whom can work simple Free Magic spells. The base camp is located deep within the Great Sickle Wood, moving every three to ten days to locations decided by Gamori and her advisors. The number of spies is unknown, as is the number of agents they have through the Kingdom. Spies and agents have been posted in Belisaere and at the Wall. These agents, when reporting to Gamori, come and go hooded and masked, making identification impossible. I have been posted to spy on the making of the Lesser Stones, in hopes of finding a way to break them. I will notify you of any further plans that come to my notice. Alocas."

The King lowered the scrap of parchment and peered over his glasses at his son. "It seems that our spy is keeping his promise, after all," he remarked.

Dantalion let out a snort. "You think so? And he has such _useful _information, too. The base camp is in the Great Sickle Wood, but is always moving. There are agents at the Wall and in Belisaere, but he does not know who they are. He appears helpful, but he sends us a whole lot of nothing."

"Are you not being a little harsh?"

"Not at all, my lord."

The King suppressed a smile. Dantalion really did not think he was being harsh in the slightest. Berillan loved his son, but the Crown Prince could be a little too sensible sometimes. He thought like Berillan's father had, the King before him: he had a straightforward, militaristic mind, and was an ideal soldier. Berillan was more interested in cultural pursuits, such as philosophy and art. True, he had been an able warrior, but lacked somewhat the ruthless efficiency of his father and son.

"Agents in Belisaere," the Prince was muttering to himself. "Who could they be? People in the palace, perhaps?"

"That is very likely," remarked Berillan, "_if _the Freemen are as powerful as Alocas has led me to believe. A few servants, no doubt, and perhaps some of the courtiers or soldiers."

"I will look into it."

"Don't look too hard," the King warned. "We do not want to risk the Freemen catching Alocas. He is our only link to them."

Dantalion dropped into a chair, resting his elbows on his knees. It was an uncharacteristic show of fatigue for him. "We have one spy, and they have several," he summarized. "Not good." The younger man raised his head and narrowed his eyes. "I do not mean any offence, but what makes you believe that you can trust Alocas?"

Berillan leaned back in his chair and rubbed his face tiredly. "I spoke with him several times during his imprisonment," he pointed out. "Alocas was eighteen when he joined the Freemen, and in that he was led along by his best friend. The Freemen recruit heavily from poor villages like his, hiring adventurous young men under delusions that they will reform the Kingdom. Alocas told me he wanted to leave, but was too afraid to do so."

"And was it fear that made him try to kill my daughter?" Dantalion demanded in a dangerously low voice.

The King felt a stab of anguish. He understood too well what his son was going through. Hadn't his three eldest children died before he could see them grow to adulthood? Every parent lived under the assumption that their children would outlive them. "I do not deny the cruelty in his attempt," Berillan answered. "It was a wicked, cowardly thing to do. But Alocas was not born an assassin – he was made one. There is a difference, Dantalion."

"He is still an assassin."

"Not anymore," said the King sternly. "From what Alocas tells me, he never wanted to be an assassin. He was one of the spies in Belisaere, dealing in information, and it was only his established position here at the palace that had him appointed to the task. According to him, he had never killed anyone before, and that fact remains true today."

Dantalion stood and paced impatiently. "You seem to put great store in what he tells you," the Prince remarked. "Why do you believe what he says, father? It is no great challenge to lie."

"We have had these arguments before," Berillan pointed out with a forced smile. "Trust me in this. We must take Alocas at his word." He turned back to the coded message, pushing his spectacles more securely onto his nose in order to scan the strange symbols. Dantalion stopped pacing and unconsciously straightened as they slipped back into the roles of King and Prince.

"He speaks of two necromancers, Gamori and Raum," said Berillan, re-reading the message. "The palace archives must be searched for any mention of them… Twenty witches and sorcerers are their accomplices. Have the scouting captains collect all records of encounters with witches and sorcerers in the last five years… Warn the foresters to keep an eye out for suspicious persons entering and leaving the Great Sickle Wood… We can do nothing for now about the spies and agents, but inform Ghidreth to be on her guard at the Wall. Also tell her to try to keep the knowledge of how to break the Lesser Stones as secret as possible." He put down the scrap of parchment and looked up at the Crown Prince, who nodded. Dantalion's memory was faultless. He had the peculiar talent of being able to recall every aspect of a conversation at a moment's notice, and never forgot an order once it had been given.

"Understood," the Prince confirmed. "Have the archives searched, ask for records from scouting captains, warn the foresters, and send Ghidreth a message." He hesitated before asking, "Will you bring this up at the Council meeting this afternoon?"

Berillan frowned and rubbed his chin. "The only ones in the palace who know the identity of our spy are you, I, Princess Penemue, and Sir Halban," he replied slowly. "The fewer people who know, the better. I will acquaint the Council with the information we have received, but nobody else must hear of it. Even Alocas does not know how many spies the Freemen have in the palace."

The Prince muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "I'll bet he _does_," but King Berillan pretended not to hear.

"Is that all?" he asked his son. When Dantalion nodded, he waved his hand. "Dismissed."

The Prince executed a crisp bow before leaving the room. Berillan folded his hands on his ornately-carved desk, studying the calluses on his fingers. Despite his assurances, King Berillan was having some doubts. He believed in Alocas' goodwill, but the Freemen had cruel methods to extract information. A great deal hinged on the spy's ability to remain silent.

"A man in blue, and a man in red," he murmured to himself, "each of them burning a body." He did not know which outcome would result from his actions, and he could only hope that the man in red was not him. He had seen too many of his loved ones die already.

The King looked down at the message in his hands. There was one sentence he had not translated for Dantalion. According to Alocas, the Freemen were planning another attempt on little Farelle's life. Alocas had provided enough information for them to successfully protect the young Princess, but the news would probably have driven his son over the edge. Dantalion need not know about this. Berillan pulled on a tasselled cord, and a servant poked his head around the door. "Nalgon," he said to the servant. "Have Sir Halban report to me immediately."

_A/N: The scene I omitted from the last chapter included a bit of an explanation on how Alocas comes by the information in his message. To summarize, the Freeman spymaster Seare reassigns Danel's old partner Morax, and pairs up Alocas and Danel. They are instructed to spy on the making of a Lesser Stone to possibly find out how to break it. Alocas asks why they aren't stationed at the Wall to find out this information, or at Belisaere where he and Danel have been posted before and can use their network of connections. Seare replies enigmatically that they already have those areas covered (insert dramatic music)._


	23. Mosrael's Choice

_A/N: Okay, I'm trying to get back to posting a chapter every week or so, and we'll see if that actually happens! We're roughly two-thirds of the way through the story, and I really want to get it all up and posted. So here we are! Special thanks to Vanilla Bean CEO for reviewing the last chapter. It's great to see that I haven't lost all of my readers!_

**Mosrael's Choice**

Nehima pushed back the hood of her fur-trimmed cloak with an air of finality. She had just come to an important conclusion: Lady Tirelle and her daughters were every one of them mad as hatters. Anyone who decided that the inside of a _glacier_, of all things, was the perfect place to live had to be crazy.

"Master Nehima!"

The blonde Wallmaker turned, and gave a genuine smile. "Master Malfas," she replied as she warmly embraced her friend and colleague. "How are you?"

"Freezing," groused the bearded man, but his eyes were twinkling. He raised a mittened hand and waved expansively at their surroundings. "So? What do you think?"

Nehima gazed around the cavernous halls carved from solid ice. "It's… blue."

The older man rolled his eyes. "Astute observation, Master Nehima."

"Oh, all right." The woman took another, longer look at her surroundings. The vaulted ceilings carved from ice were exquisite, and the floor was polished so that it shone like glass. "It's… quite impressive," she admitted grudgingly. "It doesn't hold a candle to the Wall, though."

"This place is far from finished," Malfas explained, wiping frost from his beard. "We're constructing the living quarters near the top of the glacier, and we haven't even delved into the caves below yet. As for the enormous library, it's no more than lines on a diagram. Be sure to tell all of that to Ghidreth when you give her your report. Let her know I need more workers."

"I'll tell her," Nehima promised. She turned to take another look at the room, and stopped when she spotted two young women. They were blonde, pretty, and as alike as mirrors. They were also gliding towards her as if they were on wheels. Nehima wondered to herself how they managed to do that.

"Hello," they chorused. Nehima looked up at them both. She was a short woman, but these twins seemed unnaturally tall. That combined with their gliding was downright eerie.

"Welcome to the Clayr's Glacier," one of the women said. "I'm Cimeri, one of the Lady Clayr's daughters. And this is–"

"–Berithi," said the second woman. "We apologize for it not being more comfortable, but–"

"–we're still experimenting with Charter marks for warmth–"

"–which won't melt the cave. Would you like something hot to drink?"

"Tea, perhaps?"

"Coffee?"

"Warm milk?"

"Soup?"

"What would you like?" they asked in unison. By this time, Nehima was suspecting that she had strained her own neck by looking back and forth between the two sisters. On top of the bizarre gliding and unnatural tallness, she was also unnerved by their downright weird manner of talking. This was a strange place, with even stranger people. And to think that she was related to them!

"Okay," she muttered to herself under her breath, "Get a hold of yourself, Nehima. Do not freak out… Do not freak out…"

"Hello, Master Nehima."

The blonde Wallmaker turned and was very glad indeed to see the Clayr. "Lady Tirelle!" she practically shouted in relief. "It's so good to see you!"

The Seer raised an eyebrow, and glanced at her twin daughters. "Been frightening our visitors again?" she asked mildly. Cimeri and Berithi just gave identical enigmatic smiles, and started to glide away. "And take those ice skates off," Tirelle added. Nehima stared at the twins, who grinned and lifted their skirts to skate away on the icy floors. These girls really had strange senses of humour.

Tirelle took the Wallmaker by the arm and steered her through to another room before she could ask any questions. This was smaller, and furnished with comfortable chairs in front of a roaring fireplace. Except the flames were made of red-hot Charter marks, and freezing spells were placed in the corners of the room to keep the walls from melting.

"As you see, we've been having some trouble with heating the place," explained Tirelle. She adjusted her sword before sitting down, and the Wallmaker realized that she was wearing the sword Nehima. It was a strange moment indeed for the younger woman.

"Maybe we could get the Wallmakers working on that," mused Nehima. "Malfas works more in the construction area of Charter Magic." Now that she was in a comfortable setting and the creepy twins were gone, Nehima was regaining her usual confidence. "You should have told me about this problem before; I could've come up with a solution by now," she observed, peeling off her fur mittens.

"Perhaps you should return after you give your report to the Wallmaker," Tirelle remarked as she poured tea. Nehima thought of spending months in the same place as those twins, and shuddered. "We'd be happy to have you," the Clayr was continuing. "You are family, after all."

Nehima shrugged as she accepted a cup of tea. "Only a second cousin."

"Third cousin."

"Right," the younger woman smiled. "You're the one who likes to keep track of these things."

Tirelle lifted her own cup to her lips, and remarked, "Family is important. I _like_ to keep track of all my relations. And relations are about to become even more important for this family."

The Wallmaker's ears perked up. "What's going to happen?" she asked eagerly.

The Clayr's blue eyes were sparkling. "You're the first person I'm telling," she said. "It's wonderful news. You see, about a moon ago one of the Bright Shiners made contact with me."

"No!" Nehima gasped, her mouth hanging open. She had never seen a Bright Shiner before. Felio had told her about Belgaer and Ranna during the making of the Great Stones, but to the majority of the people in the Kingdom the Seven were legends.

Tirelle leaned forward and took Nehima's hands in hers. "It was Mosrael," she continued, her voice dropping to a whisper. "He told me that he had made a choice. It was time for him to leave this world, and he spent many years deciding how to pass on his powers."

"It can't be," cried the younger woman. "Tirelle, he chose you–?"

"No," the Clayr interrupted, shaking her head. "He chose my daughters." Her face was alight with happiness, and the Wallmaker leaned back in her chair. For a moment it was as if all of the strength had drained from her body. "I told the girls that it was their decision, of course," chattered Tirelle, "But I don't think I've ever been so fortunate. To think that my daughters will be the founders of the Third Bloodline!"

Nehima recovered her powers of speech. "He is giving his powers to all of them?" she asked in disbelief.

"Of course. It was more than I could have ever hoped for. Mosrael will perform the rite within the month."

"That soon?" said Nehima. "Are you sure you've thought about this?"

Tirelle laughed. "What do you mean?" she asked. "Of course I've thought about this! I've thought of nothing else since Mosrael spoke to me."

The Wallmaker flung her braid over her shoulder in a businesslike way. "I didn't mean that," she said impatiently. "Have you considered what's been happening lately? The Freemen are still at large, and they're still attacking the First and Second Bloodlines. We've had to triple the guards on the Royal Family, and reinforce the wards on Abhorsen's House and around the Great Stones. Two Lesser Stones have already been broken with the blood of Charter Mages. We fixed them of course, but still…" She gestured helplessly with her hands. "What I mean is, once Mosrael gives his power to your daughters, they will be in very grave danger."

The Clayr had turned nearly as white as her dress. She removed her moonstone circlet with a shaking hand and ran her fingers through her hair. "I have considered that," the older woman said quietly. "We will be safe this far north. And besides," she gave a small smile, "with Mosrael's gift in their blood, my daughters will be able to see any danger coming to them before it happens."

Nehima was sceptical, and was about to argue when an image of Felio popped into her head. She could just picture him shaking his finger at her in remonstrance, pale eyes stern. There was grey in his messy black hair and his face was lined, but he still looked very much like the young Master Wallmaker she had come to love. Felio was patient and compassionate and everything that was good. He wouldn't argue with the Clayr over how to take care of her own daughters. It was none of her business, really, and Nehima forced a smile and let the moment pass.

After chatting about other subjects, Nehima left to continue her inspection of the glacier to evaluate Malfas' progress. She passed many Wallmakers during her examination, cheerfully greeting some and glaring at others. She ignored the whispers of "bighead" and "know-it-all" that followed her, identifying each hushed voice so that she could visit retribution upon them later.

In a roughly-hewn corridor she ran into a young blonde woman. Literally. The slight girl was knocked off her feet, but Nehima managed to catch herself against the wall. "Sorry about that," she said briskly, pulling the girl back up again and brushing her off.

"That's all right," the young woman said shyly. She peered at the Wallmaker with brilliant green eyes. "You're Master Nehima, aren't you?" she asked.

"Guilty as charged," Nehima muttered. "And you're one of Tirelle's daughters."

"I'm Saranim."

Nehima was terrible at names, and peered at the girl. Although this young woman was at least twenty, Nehima did not like children and wasn't feeling too warmly towards this little Clayr-spawn. "Which one are you?" she demanded. "Number three or four?"

"Six. The twins are numbers three and four."

The Wallmaker smacked her forehead with the heel of her hand. "Oh, of course! How could I _ever_ forget the twins?"

Saranim crossed her arms and smiled impishly. "They pulled the old ice-skating trick on you, didn't they?"

Nehima decided not to answer. This kid looked all nice and innocent, but that remark had been decidedly bratty. "So where are the rest of your sisters?"

"Neryl is supervising the construction, Gressa is practicing her archery, the twins are probably scaring a couple of Wallmakers, and Eligora is playing in the snow."

"That's only six," said Nehima, wiggling her fingers. "There are seven of you."

"Penemue is in Belisaere."

"Right!"

"She'll be here in a month. You know, for the Bright Shiner thing. Her children are going to stay at the palace."

The Wallmaker looked at the younger woman sharply. "Are you nervous?" she asked.

Saranim thought for a moment, and finally looked up. "Yes."

"Good," Nehima said, nodding. "You should be." She turned to continue her inspection, leaving the young woman staring after her in the corridor.

Perhaps she was being harsh, but the girl deserved the truth.

Penemue's description of her visions suddenly sprang to Nehima's mind: "The first shows a man in blue, standing alone before a burning body. The other shows a man in red, also before a burning body. I do not know which choice leads to which end, but either way somebody will die."

It looked like they had some hard tasks ahead of them, and now the Clayr's family was involved. She only hoped that Tirelle's daughters wouldn't end up paying the price for their mother's foolishness.

_A/N: Hope you enjoyed that. The next couple of chapters will spend some more time with Tirelle and her daughters. And yes, we will meet Mosrael. Bet you can't guess what he looks like!_

_Thanks for reading, reviews are always nice, and have a Happy Halloween!_


	24. Daughters of the Clayr

_A/N: Well, here's the next chapter, actually on time for a change. I am still going through chaos; I completed an assignment due today only this morning, and forgot to hand my lab report in on time, and left my article reviews to the last minute… anyway, it's crazy. But I'll get this up now so I can concentrate on homework this weekend. Enjoy!_

_Special thanks to Vanilla Bean CEO for reviewing the last chapter and urging an update! I'm so very appreciative of the reviews; you deserve a prize. Maybe I'll name a minor character after you… _

**Daughters of the Clayr**

Six women and one girl stood inside an enormous ice cave. They shivered with cold, their breath issuing in fragile clouds from between their trembling lips. Light refracted off the craggy blue walls, glittered on the tiny icicles that powdered them.

The daughters of the Clayr had gathered. High above them, between the peaks of Starmount and Sunfall, the Wallmakers were working on crafting their new home. But this vast subterranean cave remained as yet untouched. The seven sisters were to gather within this long-forgotten cave, and await Mosrael's appearance. By Neryl's reckoning he was an hour late, but who was she to scold one of the Bright Shiners? Perhaps they did not think of time as humans did. Half an hour to them could be half a minute to Mosrael.

Neryl stamped her feet, trying to stay warm. Although she was a born and bred Northerner, she was still chilled to the bone, despite the layers of heavy fur that swathed her from head to toe. Outside the cave and down a narrow passageway, her mother waited with King Berillan and a few Wallmakers. No doubt they were staying nice and toasty warm with their Charter spells, but this cave was a strange place, and it was difficult to perform Charter Magic here.

Of the gathered women, Neryl was the eldest. At her age, her mother had already been the Clayr for many years – and a mother of six to boot! But Neryl herself was barely scratching a living. She had refused the help of her mother and sisters, travelling from village to village to read signs in the stars for a price. The tall blond woman was beautiful, but she could not bear children. Such a condition made it impossible for her to keep a husband, and thus impossible to keep a home without being labelled "witch".

Penemue was a year younger than Neryl, and much weaker in Sight. But she had something that Neryl would trade all of her remarkable talents for: Penemue was a mother and a wife, and not to any man, but the Crown Prince Dantalion. Even if this was not the perfect fairy-tale wedding, Neryl would still greatly envy her sister's three beautiful children. Neryl was quite fond of her nieces and nephew, but Penemue had not brought them with her this time. She had returned north with the King for this particular occasion, leaving her little family in Belisaere. Dantalion was ruling in his father's absence, and apparently was miserable without Penemue.

After Penemue came the identical twins, Cimeri and Berithi. They had the odd habit of either completing each other's sentences, or speaking at the exact same time, a habit that could be disconcerting for those who did not know them. Even more disconcerting was their bizarre sense of humour. They were famous among the Wallmakers for their practical jokes, and were regarded with disapproval, amusement, or dread. Ever since the Wallmakers had laid down floors of planks, they had been unable to perform their "ice-skating trick". Thank goodness. The twins had taken up residence in the glacier with their mother ever since construction of the house began, and knew the twisting caves and corridors better than anyone else.

Gressa, at twenty-four, was still very young. She was now pacing restlessly across the cave, kicking at the ground. Gressa tried Neryl's patience the most, and seemed to relish rubbing all of her sisters the wrong way. This did not stop every eligible young man in their mother's village from being infatuated with her. She had received her first proposal at fifteen, and the poor young lad had to face Gressa's enormous blacksmith uncle and his three burly sons. With Tirelle in Belisaere, Gressa had been raised by her brawny uncle and cousins, and had become proficient at making weapons – and using them.

Next in age was Saranim, whose kindness seemed to compensate for Gressa's forceful personality. Like Gressa, she had been raised by the family of one of Tirelle's older siblings. Unlike Gressa, Saranim had often visited the palace. Nobody could help loving Saranim. People at Belisaere still talked about the time the King had cancelled dinner with his brother – Prince Orrofin of Ancelstierre – to teach Saranim how to play Druque.

Last of all was little Eligora, the seventh child of a seventh child. She was a frail-looking girl, but Neryl could feel the inferno of power blazing within her. Eligora would grow to be stronger than herself, stronger even than their mother in the Sight. Tirelle had cared for Eligora as a baby, but her duties as the Clayr got in the way. Neryl had agreed to look after a four-year-old Eligora, taking her along on her travels between villages. When construction in the glacier had started a year later, she had returned the child to Tirelle and the twins.

"How much longer do you think it will be?"

Neryl turned to look at Gressa, whose arms were crossed impatiently. "I do not know," Neryl answered. "But Mosrael is a Shining One, and wondering when he will arrive will not make it happen any faster." Gressa rolled her blue eyes, but did not make any smart remarks.

Eligora hugged her arms, and shivered. Although the sisters wore the heavy furs typical of the northern people, it was bitterly cold in the icy cave. "Neryl, why did he have to choose this spot?" the girl asked, teeth chattering.

The woman wrapped her arms around her youngest sister in an attempt to warm her. Due to their difference in age, Eligora had come to be more of a daughter to her than a sister, especially during their travels together. "It is an ancient place," Neryl explained kindly. "Years ago, they say that people came to these caves in the glacier to perform rituals. It's saturated with magic. Or something like magic."

"Is it quite safe?" Penemue asked, raising her eyebrow. The thin golden coronet surrounding her brow glinted. "We can barely use Charter Magic here."

"It's safe." Neryl smiled reassuringly. "Nobody has lived here for centuries."

"_I _live here."

The women spun around to face the speaker. Their mouths dropped open, and their eyes widened in a manner similar to startled deer caught on a path.

The being who had spoken lumbered through the entrance of the cave, huge paws padding softly on powdered snow. The women shrank back in fear; the beast seemed to fill the entire space. Finally, Neryl took a step forward, licking her lips nervously. "Mosrael?" she asked in a trembling voice.

The enormous creature nodded his head, black eyes sparkling. "Yes," he rumbled. "I am Mosrael." He sat back on his haunches, and extended a massive clawed paw to the daughter of the Clayr. Neryl gulped and shook it.

Mosrael was a polar bear, a colossal gleaming-white beast covered in luminous fur. He glowed with an almost unearthly light, but not so bright that you could not bear to look at him. But for all of his ferocious appearance, Mosrael smiled benignly down at the young women. "Are you the daughters of the Clayr?" the Bright Shiner asked.

Neryl nodded her golden head. "Yes. I'm Neryl, the eldest. That's Penemue with the crown. The twins are Cimeri and Berithi. Then Gressa, and Saranim, and the youngest is Eligora." The women curtseyed when introduced, which was quite an accomplishment when wearing heavy fur coats.

Mosrael twinkled down at Eligora. "And how old are you?" he asked.

"I'm twelve and a half years old," the girl said stoutly.

The Bright Shiner glanced at the eldest sister, his furry brow wrinkling in concern. "Is she too young? Should I perhaps wait a few more years?"

"Eligora has had the Sight for many years, and is very powerful," Neryl answered. "We are all ready."

Mosrael smiled. With his large white teeth, the effect was quite frightening. "Oh, I doubt that," the Shining One said amicably.

He settled himself more comfortably on the floor of the cave, and opened his mouth to speak. "I have decided to bequeath my power to you seven ladies, the daughters of the Clayr," he rumbled. "It will run into your very blood, and be passed on through generations. You are already gifted with the Sight, unusually so, but combined with my power your gifts will escalate immeasurably."

Eligora leaned forward, face shining with excitement.

The bear's voice grew suddenly serious. "I am the Waker. Although the Sight has already awoken in each of you, my power in your blood will cause you to See like no other human on this world can. Your powers may be almost debilitating for some of you. You may lose track of what is real and what is vision. You may become confused as to where and when you are. Your Sight will be both gift and curse. _Is this what you want_?"

The seven sisters exchanged uneasy glances.

"We are willing to serve, for the preservation of the Charter," Neryl said finally.

The young woman Gressa stamped her foot. "Speak for yourself, Neryl," she snapped. "You are barren and have no home, so it's all right for you to devote your life to this." She spun to look at Penemue. "But you have three children, sister. Your husband will be King one day. Are you willing to take the chance to throw all of that away?"

"Gressa!" admonished Saranim. Her sister brushed her off.

"I'm stating the facts," Gressa said bluntly. "I don't want to see the lives of my nieces and nephew ruined because of this. _I_ am willing to do it, but I don't think that Penemue should."

The princess shook her head slightly. "Thank you for your concern," she said softly, "But do not think for one moment that I didn't consider my children when I made this decision."

Gressa bit her lip. "Are you sure, sister?" the mollified young woman demanded.

"Yes," stated Penemue simply. "The Charter must be preserved. I am honoured to be a part of this."

"So are we," chimed Cimeri and Berithi together. "Both of us."

Neryl looked at her two youngest sisters. "Are you willing?" she asked.

Saranim gulped and muttered, "Yes".

Young Eligora gave a confident nod and smile.

"All right". Neryl took a deep breath and turned to Mosrael. "We are all agreed."

The great white bear bowed his enormous head. "Very well," he rumbled. "Join your hands together and gather around me." The women moved to surround Mosrael, peeling off their fur mittens to clasp their hands tightly. "Now reach into the Charter," said the Bright Shiner.

Neryl closed her eyes, and soon she could feel the individual power of all of her sisters. Penemue was the weakest of the sisters, but possessed great skill. The twins were double sources of carefully-controlled fire. Gressa's power, though not very strong, was fierce and unrestrained. Saranim's fresh power was still young and growing. And Eligora's power burned with the intensity of a sun. Neryl had never felt closer to her sisters in her life. She caught Penemue's eye over Eligora's head, and the two women smiled.

"Let us begin!" Mosrael announced. "Let your Sight… _awaken_!"

Neryl was blinded by a flash of blue light, and she would have been knocked off her feet had she not been holding her sisters' hands. She felt a ripple of energy pass through her body – no, pass _into_ her body. For a moment, she couldn't see, or hear, or feel anything. She was floating in darkness.

Then images started to flicker before her eyes.

A silver-haired Tirelle glanced, laughing, over her shoulder. _Flicker_. An ancient woman was pulled onto the top of a wall by helping hands. _Flicker_. A crowned man resembling Dantalion signed a document. _Flicker_. A black-haired youth cocked his wrist to ring a bell. _Flicker_. A crowd of white-clad women gathered in an icy cave. _Flick_–

"No! _NO!_"

Neryl brought her hands up to her eyes, beating at her head frantically to get rid of the images. After a terrifying moment of utter blackness, she slowly realized that she was lying on the cold ground of the cave. She stared at her hands, which looked white and skeletal in the bluish light. Neryl focussed on her hands, telling herself that _this_ was real, _this_ was the present. She was concentrating so much on her hands that it was a few minutes before she was able to notice anything else.

When she trusted herself enough to look around her, she saw her sisters similarly sprawled on the ground. Mosrael was nowhere to be seen. Penemue appeared to be in a state of severe shock, and Saranim writhed on the ground as if caught up in the throes of a very bad dream. Neryl blinked and rubbed her eyes again: her mother and King Berillan were in the cave, and were kneeling over Eligora's motionless body. _Eligora… Oh no…_

Gathering what little strength she had left, Neryl managed to crawl over to her youngest sister's side. Tirelle was cradling the girl's fragile body in her arms, staring down at the little white face. The Clayr's sword, Nehima, was digging into her side, but Neryl's mother did not notice.

The King helped Neryl sit up, and she managed to croak, "Is she…?"

"No," her mother answered hastily. "She lives. She sees only vision, and she will not awake from it."

The Clayr's eldest daughter looked back down at Eligora. The seventh child of a seventh child. It appeared that Eligora's great powers, augmented by Mosrael's, were truly both gift and curse. Neryl could not imagine a life lived only in visions of the future. And to happen to one so young…

There were tears in her eyes, and Neryl saw the same grief in her mother's face, and in the King's.

"Is this what you wanted?" Berillan said finally.

Tirelle slowly looked up at him, not comprehending his words.

"Is this what you wanted?" the King repeated. "For years you wished that one of the Bright Shiners would gift your blood with their powers. Now it has been done. You finally have what you longed for. Is it truly what you wanted?" The Clayr did not speak, and bowed her blond head over the body of her youngest daughter.

Neryl placed a shaking hand on her mother's shoulder. "We will take care of her," she said with confidence that she did not feel. "With our Sight, we could not live among regular society anyway. Our home is in this glacier, away from civilization. And we will take care of each other. You'll see."

Tirelle wiped her eyes, and nodded. "Yes," she whispered, her gaze not leaving Eligora. "We will take care of our own."

_A/N: Poor Tirelle. So, we've got all the bloodlines finished, and the Great Stones. Now all that's left is the Wall! That won't be done for quite a bit of time, though. Meanwhile, there's still the little problem of the Freemen plaguing the Kingdom. Telling by the way this story is going, I think it'll be another ten chapters until completion. Hang in there!_

_Reviews, as always, would be lovely!_


	25. Mortal Blood

_A/N: First of all, huge thanks to everyone who reviewed. You all get special messages this time, in addition to your review replies. I really don't know why; maybe it's because this chapter's a little short and I'm trying to take up space. La la la la la… okay, here we go:_

_EvilDonut – Nice to have you back! You regicidal rascal, you. _

_Vanilla Bean CEO – Oh, you'll get your reward! Whether you like it or not, of course._

_Sammie – I'm glad my story's entertaining you at work! I revoke all responsibility should you suffer any consequences… ;)_

_kat3e – Aw, my poor internet-deficient reader! Better late than never, m'dear._

**Mortal Blood**

Berillan poked his head through an icy archway, hoping that this time he had reached the right room. The room was dark, but he could just make out a figure in white crumpled on top of the bed. "Tirelle?"

The woman looked up at him with bloodshot eyes. "Hello," she said weakly, forcing a smile. The Clayr sat up, pushing away the King's helping hands. Her moonstone circlet was askew, and there were dark shadows under her eyes. The Seer's bedraggled appearance shocked King Berillan more than anything else; Lady Tirelle was a woman who used her appearance to great advantage, and never allowed herself to appear less than perfect.

"You are ill," said Berillan firmly. "You need to rest. Lie back down."

The Clayr ignored him. "How's Eligora?" she asked.

"She sleeps," he replied heavily. Tirelle's youngest daughter had been caught up in a world of vision for nearly two weeks now. Most of her family had given up hope of ever seeing her awake. Tirelle had been utterly devastated, and only recently had her Healer deemed the Clayr ready to receive visitors.

Berillan sat down gently on the heap of furs. The time had come for him to have a serious talk with his old friend.

Tirelle narrowed her eyes. "What?" she demanded.

Berillan feigned an innocent expression. "What 'what'?" he replied.

"You could never fool me," said Tirelle dryly. "You have that look on your face. The 'I-have-something-incredibly-important-to-discuss-so-you-had-better-listen' look. What is it?"

"I have a look like that?" the King asked with great interest. At the woman's dark glare he chuckled and raised his hands in defeat. "All right, I confess. I've been communicating with Lord Abhorsen, and we both feel that you should be further acquainted with the threat of the Freemen. Now that your daughters have the Charter in their blood, you will all be in great danger."

"Nehima said something of the sort when she was here," muttered the Clayr. She blinked and straightened her shoulders, fixing her expression into one of resolve. "What has been done to thwart the Freemen?" she asked.

Berillan followed her lead, turning to more practical subjects of conversation. "We have tried to find information on the necromancers identified by our spy. There is no mention of the leader Gamori, but her second-in-command Raum does appear in old records. Lady Malia is going through them now looking for information." The King paused to shift his position, sitting more comfortably on the end of the bed before continuing. "We have identified witches and sorcerers in the area who could be involved with the Freemen. Charter Mages have orders to arrest them on sight. Our rangers have also kept track of the people seen going in and out of the Great Sickle Wood, and our soldiers are keeping tabs on them as potential agents."

"Sounds like you've been busy," Tirelle remarked. "Tell me more about your spy."

"Young Alocas has been a tremendous help," said Berillan confidently. "He warns us every time an attack is planned. Thanks to him we have already thwarted several attempts on the lives of the Royal Family, and Abhorsen and Cassiel. Nobody on our side has died."

By the expression on the Clayr's face, Berillan knew that she was thinking about the vision she had shared with her daughters three years ago. Somebody _was_ going to die, eventually. "I have my doubts about this Alocas person," the Seer murmured. "Spies are dishonest folk to begin with."

"I believe him to be reformed," the King pointed out.

"Then I trust your word."

Berillan was comforted by this unquestioning faith. As he grew older, he knew that his subjects were going to start treating him like a doddery old man. He was still far from that stage, but he could not escape the fact that he was aging. They all were – he, Tirelle, Ghidreth, and Abhorsen. And yet these three friends of his still trusted him implicitly. If he was wrong about Alocas, then he would not be worthy of their trust anymore.

Tirelle had muttered something, and the King asked her to repeat it. "Why?" said the Clayr softly. "Why would these people want to kill us?"

Berillan sighed and shook his grey head. "There are many who still practice Free Magic," he replied. "With the destruction of even one of the Charters, it will be easier for them to continue with their dark ways." His voice gained in strength as he spoke. "Now that the Bright Shiners are passing on, the power of the Charter must be guarded by mortal blood. This makes the power that we wield all the more precious and vulnerable." He took Tirelle's hand and squeezed it comfortingly. "The plans for the Great Stones have been stolen, so it is known that they can only be broken with the power of a Bright Shiner – or our blood. It is now our duty to guard the Charters. It is up to us to guard our Bloodlines, and the Stones."

The woman had raised her chin in a tell-tale sign of resolve. "Here in the north, my daughters and I will evade the reach of those scheming necromancers. We will use our Sight to help the Kingdom, and to protect the Charters. This I promise you, Berillan."

"You are all staying here?" the King asked. He did not add that he thought it insane for anyone to want to live in a glacier. After all these years, he was still a little afraid of Tirelle.

"Penemue will return to Belisaere with you, of course," said the Seer. "She needs to be with her family. Besides, the Clayr's position is at the palace."

Berillan did a double-take. "You mean that you're not–?"

"I am retiring," Tirelle confirmed. "It will be refreshing to wear something other than white, for a change. And Penemue will make a good Clayr. She was not affected by Mosrael's powers as seriously as her sisters. She still gets flashes of violent images, of course, but that's not unlike what I myself experienced as a Clayr. She also possesses remarkable composure, and she's smarter than I ever was. She will do fine."

"I know she will," said Berillan. "In fact, I was surprised at your retirement because I had been considering stepping down myself." The King grinned, "I don't think I could handle another evening sporting that hideous ceremonial crown. Of course, I would still be King – I retain the title until death – but Dantalion would be the one doing all the work. He's been ruling in my stead whenever I leave the palace, and has had lots of practice." He reached over to the end table, and poured two goblets of wine from a cut crystal bottle. Handing one to Tirelle, the King raised his own goblet. "To retirement."

The Seer laughed and clinked her goblet against his. "To retirement," she repeated, taking a mouthful of wine. "Ahh… that's the taste I've been missing."

"The Clayr is not allowed to drink?" Berillan queried, raising his eyebrow.

"Not exactly," admitted Tirelle. "It's just that drinking sometimes causes powerful, distorted visions. Not exactly pleasant."

"That's not unique only to Seers," remarked the King. "Remember when Abhorsen got drunk and was convinced that he was being chased by a giant ham?"

Tirelle snorted into her goblet. "First, we should never have gone into Villana Bane's pub," she snickered. "And second, you shouldn't have started that bet. He was convinced that he could drink a whole jug of Bane's home brew and keep his head. That ale is lethal! The young upstart is no different now than he was then."

"Young upstart? He's forty-six."

"He's still younger than us." The Seer's eyes twinkled suddenly in remembrance. "The first time we saw him, he was cooling his heels in the palace dungeons. And now he's practically respectable. I mean, he has a home, a family, and a decent job. Well, not a _decent_ job…"

The two old friends sat together throughout the night, drinking wine and talking. They talked about their lives, about finding love and watching their children grow. They talked about their grandchildren, and wondered if little Princess Sitri had started walking yet. They talked about witnessing the start of two new Bloodlines. They talked about the Wall and the Great Stones, which would go down in the history annals as being their personal legacy to the Kingdom.

And as the sun was rising over Starmount and Sunfall, the King and his Clayr toasted one another on having lived wonderful lives.

_A/N: Aww… two old friends, looking back on all they have done together. Kodak moment! The next chapter will not be quite so lovey-dovey._

_Vanilla Bean CEO, you're the owner of a pub! Except your name is a little… altered. I couldn't call a character in the Old Kingdom "Vanilla Bean," now, could I? Shame on you, letting Abhorsen get drunk on your home brew and believe he was being chased by a giant ham! You know, that sounds like an idea for a one-shot. Hmm…_

_I have another idea! To all my reviewers, if you want an "honourable mention" in the story, I'd love to do it! This goes especially for those faithful people who've reviewed, but I'm grateful to anyone who's reading this story. I wish there was some way to repay you people, so this is the best I can do. Oh, and if you flame me, I'll make you an ugly short-lived henchman for the Freemen – just kidding!_


	26. A Traitor in Our Midst

_A/N: Thank you for reviewing, you fabulous, intelligent, amazingly attractive people (am I sucking up? Oh yeah). Oh, and thanks also to all the silent readers out there who've stuck with this… Unless the reviewers are the only ones reading this story, and they're reading each chapter several times. In either case, I'm flattered!_

_Sammie: My anonymous reviewer, I couldn't reply to you privately so you get a note that everybody gets to read! So who will be standing over the body? I already know, of course, but it's still fun to wonder. You won't find out in this chapter, but it's coming soon, I promise!_

**A Traitor in Our Midst**

Alocas and Danel had been summoned to see Gamori, and like everyone who experienced similar circumstances they dropped whatever they were doing and immediately obeyed.

Alocas was quite distracted, and being summoned to Gamori's tent was not only frightening, but irritating as well. He had some very important information to send to Belisaere, but he could not risk messenger-birds. This information was much too valuable and dangerous, and he was even considering going to the palace in person.

The camp was quiet when he ducked out of the tent behind Danel, and a figure approached as soon as they emerged, hailing both of them by name. At first Alocas did not recognize the face, backlit by a bright orange sun. It therefore came as a great surprise when the stranger smiled widely and said, "It's good to see you again, Alocas!"

A perplexed Alocas blinked and turned to his friend for explanations. "Who–?"

"Don't you recognize Vassago?" chuckled Danel.

"Vassago?" Alocas turned to stare at the stranger, who winked impishly at him. "Not my little cousin Vassago?"

"I'm not sure about 'little'," the young man snorted. "I'm eighteen years old now. Danel just recruited me. I'm the newest member of the Freemen!"

Thankfully, Danel and Vassago took the look of horror on his face to be one of surprise. The last time Alocas had seen Vassago, he had been a six-year-old boy with dark twinkling eyes who laughed at everything. The thought that he was caught up in something as dangerous as the Freemen was worse than anything that had happened to the spy so far.

Danel told Vassago to scram, and led his dismayed friend to Gamori's tent. The soldiers posted outside inclined their heads respectfully at Danel, and let them both pass.

Alocas was surprised by the number of people inside the tent. He had expected Gamori, Raum, and the witch Carabia, of course. But Spymaster Seare was there, as was Master Torturer Bute, and a hooded and masked agent.

"Good," said Gamori. She was dressed in blue, as usual, and sat on her chair as if it was a throne, staring down at them all. Her imposing countenance could have been carved from marble. "Now that we are all here, there is something I would like to reveal." She looked around at the assembled group, and announced, "We have a traitor in our midst."

Alocas' stomach plummeted to his knees.

"You see," the necromancer carried on, "A recent attempt by two of our sorcerers to waylay Lord Abhorsen was thwarted. The sorcerers were killed, of course, for their failure. But before they died they told me that it seemed as if Abhorsen was prepared for them. He knew exactly where they would ambush him and how." She gazed around the room. "The only people who knew about this plan, other than the sorcerers, are standing in this tent right now."

She was silent for twenty whole seconds, before the inevitable explosion came. "Which one of you did it?" she shrieked, knocking over a table covered in platters of food. Everyone in the tent jumped about a foot into the air. "All of these years spent trying, and Gabriel Abhorsen is _still alive_!" screamed Gamori. "I will not have that spineless turncoat outlast me!" She paused, breathing hard, and noticed their incredulous stares. The necromancer gave a bone-chilling laugh that sent shivers down Alocas' spine. "Yes, I knew him once," she hissed, raking her sharp nails through a beautiful tapestry. "But he was still a necromancer then, known as Gabriel." She snarled as she tore the tapestry to shreds.

Gamori continued to mindlessly demolish her tent, apparently forgetting that anyone else was present in the room. However her second-in-command, the necromancer Raum, was peering at Alocas in a way that the spy did not like at all.

"It was you, wasn't it?" the tall necromancer growled.

Alocas gulped and shook his head, desperately wishing that he could just blend into his surroundings. Was it just his terrible luck that one of the most fearsome necromancers in the Kingdom immediately accused him of treachery? The fact that Raum was right had nothing to do with it, of course.

Raum took a step closer, and it took all of the spy's willpower not to cower in fear. "Four years were you held in that prison," the necromancer was saying darkly. "And then they just decided to let you go? You've been passing information to them since you returned!"

"You don't know that," Danel spoke up, moving to stand beside Alocas. "There is no proof–"

"Proof!" Raum exploded. "_Proof!_ Somebody in this room betrayed us! Who else could it have been?" He reached out with a gloved hand and seized Alocas by the scruff of his neck. The spy struggled as he was dragged outside, but he may as well have tried to sprout wings and fly over the forest for all the good it did him. That necromancer was strong! Everyone else poured out of the tent to watch the spectacle, except Gamori who was still intent on destroying her living quarters.

Alocas looked up at the sky, which the setting sun was turning blood-red.

Raum ordered the guards to circle them and keep away the curious bystanders who had begun to gather at the commotion. Alocas was shoved to his knees in the mud, landing with an undignified splat.

"Bute!" the necromancer barked. "Give me your whip. Now!"

The torture-master reluctantly handed over the ox hide whip he always carried at his belt. Alocas looked up at his old friend, but the older man was studiously avoiding his gaze. Overcome with a sense of despair, the spy made no move to resist as two guards caught hold of his arms.

"Alocas," Raum hissed venomously. "Did you turn against the Freeman and become an informant to the Kingdom?"

The spy considered his options, mind buzzing. If he confessed, he would be tortured and executed. If he did not confess, then he would be tortured too – but perhaps his life would be spared. And if he turned against the Kingdom now, he knew that Prince Dantalion would see to it that he suffered for the remainder of his short life, helped by that frightening man Abhorsen who walked in Death. No, the best thing to do would be to hold his tongue.

His resolution wavered with the first strike of the whip. Alocas tried to take his mind off the pain by reminding himself that he had been tortured before, but unsurprisingly that thought did not comfort him.

Alocas turned instead his head to the side, to concentrate on the faces of those who were watching. Bute looked on helplessly, but made no move to interfere. The Spymaster Seare had an unreadable expression. Danel, however, had that desperate look on his face. It was the look that he always wore before he was going to do something heroic and incredibly stupid. Alocas tried to plead with his eyes, telling him not to get involved, but it seemed to do no good.

"That is enough!" Danel shouted, striding forward. He caught Raum's arm as the necromancer swung it back for another strike. "Alocas has been a valuable spy for our side these past eight years," he continued. "He gave us invaluable information on the layout of the palace!"

Raum shook off the other man, but when Danel grabbed his arm again, the necromancer swung around angrily. "Do not touch me, spy," snarled Raum. When Danel did not comply, the necromancer jerked his head.

Two more guards grabbed Danel between them, and Raum proceeded to whip him as well. Alocas watched helplessly. His back was in agony, yes, but he could not shake off this horrible sense of guilt, which was almost as bad. His best friend was putting himself in danger in order to defend him from the Freemen, when in fact Alocas _had_ turned against them. It was this unbearable guilt that made him speak up: "Don't! He didn't do anything!"

Perhaps drawing Raum's attention to him wasn't the wisest thing to do, but it did stop the necromancer from further hurting Danel. It was almost worth the pain of what happened to him next. Almost.

When Raum was finally finished with the two of them, he flung the whip onto the ground and pushed his way out of the circle of bystanders. Without a word to anyone, the necromancer untied his horse from a post and rode off into the forest at breakneck speed.

The guards dropped Alocas, and he was too weak to stop himself from falling face-first into the mud. He could hear murmurs as the people dispersed, discussing what had just happened and wondering where Raum had gone. Alocas rested his cheek in the cool mud, letting the wind sting his ragged back.

A pair of embroidered slippers entered his vision, and Alocas looked up to see Gamori, who had calmed somewhat after destroying the interior of her tent. She cast her disdainful eyes over the scene, before resting them on an unfortunate guard. "Where is the necromancer Raum?" she demanded.

The poor guard's knees were shaking. He licked his lips twice before answering, "He's g- gone, milady."

"Of course he is gone!" the woman snapped. "I can see that! Now where did he go to, fool?"

"I- I do not know, milady."

"You do not know." Her voice was completely calm, and it scared Alocas more than her shouting ever had.

The guard shuffled his feet, twisting his spear nervously with sweaty hands. "He just rode off without saying anything. Nobody knows where he went, milady."

Gamori stared at the guard for a moment. Then without any forewarning, she grabbed the spear from the soldier's faltering hands and ran him through.

Alocas stared at the fallen guard, then gaped up at the necromancer. Gamori was looking down at him and Danel with an expression of mild disgust, and the spy suddenly wondered if he was going to die.

"Take them away," she finally said to the frightened bystanders, before turning and heading back to her tent.

Within a few minutes, Alocas found himself being tended to by Nammah, Danel's wife, and a fellow spy. Vassago had also been by to check on them. After bandaging their flayed backs, the woman ducked out into the night to find some more herbs to dull the pain.

Alocas propped himself up on one arm, and turned to Danel. "I need to tell you something," he whispered.

Danel sensed the urgency in his voice, and frowned. "What?"

The other spy took a deep breath. "I need you to get out of here." At Danel's blank look, he carried on. "Take Nammah with you. And take young Vassago. Get out of here. Go home. Go somewhere – only don't stay with the Freemen any longer."

A small smile tickled the corner of Danel's mouth. "What are you talking about?"

Alocas wondered what he could say to keep his friend from becoming involved, without giving away his situation. "Listen," he said as reasonably as he could. "This – all of this – it's obviously not what we expected it to be. We live poorly, the food is bad, and we're punished severely for the slightest offence. People are killed for _anything_ around here! We cannot live like this. And those who are caught by the Kingdom – and many have been caught – are usually never seen again."

For a long moment Danel said nothing. Finally, he shook his head. "I understand if you feel you've had enough," the man said slowly. "But this is a way of life for me now. I'm in too deep, and I will see it through. Run if you wish – I will cover for you. But I cannot do what you ask."

Alocas fell silent as Nammah returned to the tent. He brooded by himself, desperately wondering what he should do. Finally, he gave a short nod and sat up, reaching for his tunic.

"Alocas!" Nammah exclaimed, nearly spilling the tea she was brewing. "What do you think you're doing?"

The spy shot a glance at his friend, who nodded. "It's all right, Nammah," soothed Danel.

Alocas winced as he pulled on his tunic, then clasped his friend's hand warmly. The spy grabbed his cloak and rucksack, and ducked out of the tent.

The camp was quiet in the evening, with little islands of cooking fires in the shadows. He nodded briefly at the other Freemen as he passed, striding towards the trees with a purposeful air. The others assumed that he was heading out on another spying mission, and left him alone. Alocas was stopped briefly by guards, who were their usual unpleasant selves. But his answers seemed to satisfy them, and they double-checked his mark before letting him out of the campsite.

But when Alocas finally reached the overgrown road, he did not turn his steps back to his home village. Instead, he left the path, cutting north to Belisaere.

_A/N: So, how does Gamori know Abhorsen? And where does Alocas' allegiance lie? And where the heck did Raum go? I won't tell you the answer to the first question, but the second and third will be answered in due time. Gosh, that wasn't helpful at all, was it?_

_Oh, and I really can't wait to put up the next chapter! I'm going through it right now, and it's just… well, you'll see. _


	27. Fall of a Legend

_A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed! My email's been acting a bit wonky, so I'm receiving review alerts quite late, and I hope I replied to everyone! I was a bit surprised that some people thought Gabriel and Gamori had a bit of a "thing" in the past. I won't say yes or no – believe what you want, for now._

_I was a little nervous about posting this chapter, and for a while the website wouldn't let me upload my documents! But now it's finally posted. Let's see how you receive it…_

**Fall of a Legend**

Cassiel sat outside of the bedroom, head buried in his hands. The moon was about to rise, and stars were beginning to poke their heads out over Abhorsen's House. Cassiel's father had gone to receive an urgent message, and the young man was sitting alone in the corridor. Well, perhaps not completely alone…

"Nervous, milord?"

The young man raised his head to glare at the albino dwarf. "Do you have any idea how stupid that question is?" he said quietly.

Mogget rolled his green eyes. "I just couldn't help but notice how like your father you are. Both incessant worriers. You should have seen him the night _you_ were born!"

"Yes, thank you, Mogget," muttered Cassiel. He dropped his head into his hands and closed his eyes. "This is not helping."

"Abhorsen told me to keep you occupied while you waited," the dwarf pointed out craftily. "I am merely obeying his orders."

The young man gritted his teeth. "Then obey mine and leave me alone!"

"I am Lord Abhorsen's servant. His orders take precedence over yours."

Cassiel resisted the urge to place his hands around Mogget's neck, and resigned himself to his fate.

"Yes, you are very like your father," the dwarf continued. "Both foolish, of course. And disgustingly heroic. It makes the stomach churn."

The sound of a door opening interrupted Mogget's soliloquy, and Cassiel looked up as the midwife's apprentice emerged. She smiled and bobbed a curtsey. "You may go in, milord."

With a final glare at Mogget, the young man got to his feet. He hesitantly poked his head into the room, and the midwife smiled up at him. "Your wife is asleep, Master Cassiel," she told him, and held up a small bundle. "Say hello to your son."

Cassiel was surprised at what he saw: the baby was bright red. The young man's skin was white, and his father's had been white – was there something wrong with this kid? He looked like he was suffering from a severe case of sunburn. "Is he – er – quite all right?" he asked nervously.

The midwife beamed. "Oh, yes! He is perfectly healthy." Cassiel relaxed and took a closer look at his son. The little red face was scrunched up, as if the baby was overcome with frustration and rage at the world he had entered. He clenched his tiny red fists and gave a toothless snarl. Alarmed, Cassiel took an involuntary step back.

Abhorsen materialized at the young man's side and clapped him on the shoulder. "Congratulations, Cassiel," he grinned, and gazed at the baby rapturously. "He looks just like you did. Actually, you looked a sight uglier when you were born."

Cassiel smiled weakly at his father. He knew that the old man would spoil his son rotten. He would also have to make sure that his father didn't steal the boy away and take him into Death before he was old enough. If he was sure of anything, it was that Lord Abhorsen would make an unusual grandfather. The sort who would say to his grandson, "I have an idea – let's go play with Daddy's bells!" or "I know your father said you weren't allowed to go past the First Gate, but…" or even, "Want to see grandpa slay a Mordicant?"

"I just received an urgent message," Abhorsen continued, breaking through these terrifying thoughts. "There is an uprising of Dead near one of the villages along the river. I could go alone, if you want to spend more time here."

"No, I'll come with you," Cassiel answered promptly. "It will go quicker with the both of us." He buckled on his sword and grabbed his bells from a hook on the wall. "Tell my wife I'll be back soon," he said to the midwife over his shoulder, "And that we shall perform the baptism upon our return."

Father and son easily jumped the stepping-stones to the eastern shore. In a nearby cavern they retrieved their horses, guarded by Charter magic and tended to by sendings. They rode swiftly upriver, eyes tearing up from the strong wind.

Cassiel looked at the sight his father made, mounted on a tall black horse and resplendent in his blue and silver surcoat. It had taken Cassiel a long time to realize that his father was a legend; to him, the older man had always been just that – his father. And now he was a grandfather, a fact surprisingly difficult to believe. It was times like these when he could see why Abhorsen was one of the most famous and respected personages in the Kingdom.

They rode on in silence until Abhorsen raised his hand. Cassiel felt it at the same moment: Dead hands. They reigned in their horses and dismounted; the animals would only run mad if they took them any closer. Cassiel jogged after his father through the trees, striving to keep up with the older man's swift pace. "I know you want to get back to your son," Abhorsen was saying, speaking loudly to be heard over the wind, "so we'll make this quick. No fancy stuff, all right?"

Soon they heard the shuffling of feet in the loam. Abhorsen turned and barked a spell. White light flared from his fingers, knocking three Dead hands off their feet. Cassiel was already ringing Saraneth, the disoriented Dead submitting easily to his will. His father rang Kibeth, walking them effortlessly into Death. All of this had taken a matter of seconds.

Working together, they had soon dispatched over fifty Dead hands, and two Mordicants. "Now where is the necromancer?" Abhorsen wondered aloud, shaking blood from his sword.

"Perhaps he is still in Death calling up reinforcements," Cassiel suggested.

Abhorsen pointed his sword and cast a diamond of protection about the two of them. He looked at his son and nodded, and without the slightest hesitation they both plunged into Death.

Cassiel looked around at the familiar grey waters, momentarily disoriented by the sudden silence. The wind had been roaring in his ears a split second ago. He and his father stood still, but they could hear nothing. Together they cast a series of complicated spells, forging lifelines in case they lost their footing. The spells were difficult to maintain, as they continuously drained power from the casters, but Cassiel thought them well worth the effort. Death was still a realm relatively unexplored by the living, especially the furthest precincts, and these lifelines had saved father and son countless times.

"Split up," Abhorsen instructed. "Move carefully, and try to take the necromancer unawares. Whoever finds him first whistles for the other. Understood?" The young man nodded, feeling as though he were twelve again. Abhorsen gave him a swift smile, before they turned and set off in opposite directions.

Cassiel wandered fruitlessly across the vast stretch of water, every sense on the alert. He lost his patience long before his feet finally came to a stop. He looked out over the flat grey horizon, and was just about to turn back when he heard – something. The young man froze and listened with all of his might. The sound grew into a whistle, loud and pure. His father's signal!

He broke out into a splashing run, his feet automatically taking him along a safe path through the waters. The faint sounds of battle reached his ears, and he ran even faster with little heed for safety.

There – he could see his father now, fighting desperately with the necromancer at the edge of the First Gate. They were both exceptional swordsmen, and Cassiel drew his own blade as he ran. Charter spells were no good, as he could not risk hitting his father.

Abhorsen parried a vicious blow and extended his arm, executing his famous stop-thrust. The necromancer barely managed to step out of the way, but suddenly the older man froze.

Cassiel realized too late that the necromancer had quickly switched his sword from his right hand to his left – and had run Abhorsen through.

The young man watched his father fall back into the water, and an anguished scream broke from his lips. The necromancer turned around with a cruel smile adorning his pale features.

All thoughts of magical spells faded from Cassiel's mind. He ran up to the other man and raised his sword, his attack fuelled by rage and sorrow. The necromancer sidestepped the blow and countered with a slash, which Cassiel managed to block. The fight was quick and furious, cold water splashing as they battled at the edge of the waterfall. Although the necromancer greatly outmatched Cassiel in strength, the young man was quick and agile, and grief made him vicious.

Cassiel swung down, and locked hilts with the necromancer. He noticed a strange spiralling design on the other man's sword hilt, and recognized it as the symbol of the Freemen.

The necromancer grinned down at him widely. "Nice try, boy," he smirked, "But your father isn't around to aid you." He shoved Cassiel, who stumbled back and fell.

The young man was caught up in the water's icy current, and just barely managed to fight to his knees. In the struggle, he lost his sword. "Anet!" he yelled desperately, but the spell was deflected by the necromancer's weapon. There was something familiar about the design of the necromancer's blade. As it was levelled at his neck, Cassiel realized that it had once been a Charter Blade made by the Wallmaker herself, and was now twisted to serve Free Magic.

The necromancer sneered and raised his corrupted blade high. "Father and son, first and last of a bloodline, killed together," he mocked.

Cassiel, kneeling nearly waist-deep in the cold water, felt something hard brush up against his hand. Without thinking he grabbed it, recognizing it as the hilt of his father's sword. He swung the blade up and out of the water in a flashing arc, even as he pushed himself to his feet.

The necromancer's head fell into the grey water with a splash, and his body crumpled soon after. In seconds he had vanished from sight.

Cassiel absent-mindedly sheathed the sword – it was a bad fit – then cast himself back onto his knees, searching frantically for his father. It hadn't been long since he had fallen, and the body couldn't have gone far. After a few minutes, or years, he finally found his father's body submerged in the icy river. The ragged remains of the lifeline had kept it from being pulled through the First Gate. Even as he held the older man the lifeline disintegrated into grey smoke. Cassiel knew that he needed to get back to Life quickly. Walking these waters were creatures who would be only too glad to exterminate Lord Abhorsen. Hefting his father's limp form over his shoulder, he trudged back up the river, heading for the light and Life.

Cassiel opened his eyes and moved swiftly to catch his father as the older man crumpled to the ground. The diamond of protection was gone, and freezing wind buffeted their bodies, but the young man did not pay any attention to that. He lowered his father tenderly onto the frost-rimed grass, cradling the man's head in his lap. Abhorsen shivered as he gazed up at his son. Blood was dribbling from his mouth and nose, a stark contrast to the paper-white of his face.

"Cassiel," he gasped, and his voice gurgled slightly – there was blood in his lungs.

"I'm here," the younger man said, smoothing Abhorsen's hair back from his face. He locked his eyes with his father's, not daring to look at the ugly wound in the older man's chest.

"I… I have to leave you, now…"

"No!" Cassiel protested, shaking his dark head vehemently. "I saved you."

But his father's cheek was growing cold beneath his fingers. Abhorsen smiled with unusual tenderness. "I was dead already," he answered gently, "But I am glad you won us these last few moments before I go."

Cassiel's vision was blurred with hot tears which he did not bother to wipe away. They dropped onto his father's hair, disappearing among the strands of grey and black.

Abhorsen sighed, and blood flecked his chin. "There is… so much left to do," he murmured. "Can you carry on my work, Cassiel? Will you keep the Dead from walking in Life?"

"Yes," replied his son, struggling to keep his voice composed.

The older man fumbled as he pulled a silver ring from his finger, and pressed it into the young man's hand. "Take this," Abhorsen instructed. Cassiel was familiar with this tool for binding Mogget's Free Magic form. He slipped it obediently onto his finger before seizing his father's hand, grasping it hard. Abhorsen licked his lips. "And the book–?"

"I will finish it," the young man promised.

His father smiled faintly, and nodded. "Take my bells," he said hoarsely. "You already have my sword." Abhorsen's dark eyes sharpened as they focussed on his son. "Teach your little boy. Continue the bloodline." He paused for another wheezing breath. "I am proud of you, Cassiel."

The young man forced a smile. "Well, I learned from the best, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did." Abhorsen grinned, and coughed weakly. "Tell your mother that I love her, and that I will be waiting."

Cassiel nodded, no longer trusting himself to speak. It was taking every bit of his composure to keep from breaking down. His expression remained calm, but tears ran freely down his face. He managed a shaky smile as he squeezed his father's cold hand, receiving a faint answering squeeze.

With a final rattling sigh, Abhorsen closed his eyes for the last time.

Cassiel bowed his head over his father's body and wept uncontrollably. When heavy sobs finally ceased to wrack his body, and when he had cried out all of his tears, the young man gulped and straightened his shoulders.

Taking a deep breath, he removed his swordbelt, and reached out with trembling hands to unbuckle that of his father. He fixed it about his own waist, resheathing Abhorsen's magnificent sword at his hip. Next, Cassiel carefully put his own bells to the side and settled his father's bell-bandolier in its place.

That done, Cassiel arranged his father's body so that the man lay with his arms crossed over his chest, and eyes closed. He moved almost mechanically, his senses numbed to the surroundings as he prepared to carry out the traditional funeral rites to prevent his father's body from being enslaved by a necromancer. The young man reached into the Charter, and with great care drew out marks for fire, cleansing, peace, and sleep. They twinkled over Abhorsen's chest, seeming to mock him with their cheerful brightness.

He flicked his wrist, and the marks burst into flame. Cassiel's blue surcoat whipped around him as he watched his father's body go up in a glorious blaze of fire.

…_a man in blue, standing alone before a burning body…_

He drew a shaky breath, and closed his eyes, bowing his head against the wind. The heat of the flames caressed his face, and for a moment he could almost imagine his father's touch. "Farewell… Go safely," he whispered, reciting the traditional words. "Do not come back."

Picking up his old bell-bandolier, Cassiel turned and trudged through the trees, heading for home and his new-born son.

_A/N: I'm so, so sorry, really I am, but it had to be done! If you want to flame me, I won't blame you; I loved Gabriel Abhorsen too._

_Here's an interesting question: What would have happened if Alocas had not been sent back to the Freemen? If you recall, Penemue Saw a man in blue burning a body, and a man in red burning a body. If you really want a hint, check what information Alocas sent Berillan in his first message._


	28. The Lesser Stone

_A/N: I'm back! Final exams are over, which means that I can move on to more important thing, like writing fanfiction. Huge thanks to everyone who reviewed, and apologies for the wait._

_Some of you expressed confusion over Cassiel being married. I decided not to write about his courtship with his wife because I thought it unnecessary – I wanted to focus on the main characters and plot rather than constantly bring in new ones as they arise._

_So yes, quite some time has passed, and Cassiel grew up without you knowing! Chapters 19 to 22 take place when Cassiel is 14 years old (circa Cassiel's Bells), then there are three years between chapters 22 and 23, and another six years between chapters 25 and 26. So let's see… that makes Cassiel about 23 years old right now._

_In every chapter I try to put in little references to age, so that the truly dedicated (and insane) can actually track out the passage of time and the age of each character. For all those who are not insane, I will put up a complete explanation of the passage of time and character ages at the end of the story._

_You'll find out who would have died if Alocas hadn't been sent back to the Freemen in… let's see…three chapters._

**The Lesser Stone**

Dantalion lowered the parchment with a shaking hand. It had arrived at the palace minutes ago, sealed in blue wax and stamped with a key symbol. An identical scroll had come for his father and, the Prince assumed, similar messages had been sent to Ghidreth at the Wall and Tirelle at the Clayr's glacier. "Prince Dantalion," his message read, "I have grave tidings…" Dantalion buried his face in his hand, surprised at the amount of grief that he felt.

"Papa?" He looked up to see his youngest, Princess Sitri, standing in the doorway. Her large eyes flicked to the message and back to his face. "What happened?"

Dantalion knew that he couldn't fool his daughter; she was just too perceptive. He patted his knee and she obediently perched on it, looking up at him with her head cocked to the side like a bird's.

"Do you remember Lord Abhorsen?" he asked.

The girl's face lit up with laughter. "The man in blue who told all those funny stories?"

Dantalion nodded. "Yes. This letter is from his son. You see, something happened to Lord Abhorsen last night, and…"

"Is he dead?" asked Sitri abruptly.

"Yes."

"Oh." The little girl was silent for a moment, then said, "That's all right, then."

The girl's father was puzzled at her words, and asked her to explain.

"Uncle Abhorsen told me that one day he would die," she said matter-of-factly. "And he said not to worry, because he knew Death so well that he wouldn't get lost or anything."

Dantalion was still looking at his daughter in wonder, when a servant rapped smartly on the door. "Pardon me, your Majesty," she said. "But the Wallmakers are ready for you now."

The Prince nodded, and Sitri slid from his knee. The servant took her kindly by the hand as Dantalion walked through the palace towards the gates. A contingent of the Royal Guard surrounded him, and he set off through the city streets.

It did not take long until they had reached their destination. It was a relatively small square, but Royal guards had temporarily blocked off all street entrances. Other than the soldiers keeping the curious crowds at bay, there were three Wallmakers waiting in the square. They were Felio and Nehima, the two middle-aged Masters, and a younger Wallmaker was with them.

Felio shook the Prince's hand politely. "How's ruling the Kingdom going?"

The Prince raised an eyebrow. His father had gone into semi-retirement, leaving the running of the Kingdom in Dantalion's hands. Berillan still retained the title of King, and was always available to advise him, but the brunt of responsibility still fell on Dantalion's shoulders. "It's perfectly fine," he lied, and Felio gave him a knowing smile.

Nehima crushed the Prince's hand in her iron grip, and pointed at their young companion. "This is Craftsman Joderan," she said brightly, "but we call him Joddy. He volunteered for this job."

Joddy pumped the Prince's arm enthusiastically. Dantalion noted that the younger man's leather vest had recently been cleaned, down to the embroidered yellow trowel. He hoped that the Craftsman hadn't done all that just because he was meeting the Prince.

"We're going to try something different this time," Felio explained as they walked towards the centre of the square. They were all doing quite a good job of ignoring the curious citizens of Belisaere who were peering around the soldiers blocking the roads. "As you know," said Felio casually, "most of the Lesser Stones have been set up in towns and villages across the Kingdom to be sources for the Charter, and serve as protection from Free Magic."

Dantalion nodded in understanding.

"Well," said Nehima, picking up where Felio left off, "We've been experimenting lately with more specialized Stones, and have been quite successful. This particular one will contain spells of bounty and fruitfulness and such."

The Prince looked at the plain grey stone standing amidst three withered young lemon trees. He wondered what sort of idiot would try to plant lemon trees this far north. "What do I need to do?" he asked the Wallmakers, rolling up his sleeves.

"The usual," Felio answered, drawing his knife. Dantalion thought it interesting that he had helped with so many Lesser Stones, that cutting open his hand was now something habitual.

Dantalion took the knife and sliced his palm, smearing the blood on the surface of the stone. With his other hand he took Joddy's, who in turn placed his free hand on the stone as well to complete the circle. The Prince reached easily into the Charter, blocking out all other distractions so that it felt as though he were floating in a sea of golden marks. He felt the power of the Charter well up within him, and pour out of his hands into the Stone and into the Wallmaker beside him. Joddy, meanwhile, was working spells as fast as he could cast them, and after only perhaps an hour, the flow stopped. Dantalion withdrew from the Charter and opened his eyes, to see Felio and Nehima supporting a weak-kneed Joddy between them.

Examining the Stone, Dantalion could indeed make out spells for fruitfulness, fertility, and bountitude. "It looks like it's working," he muttered. Indeed, the leaves of the lemon trees were already a little greener, and a blossom or two had opened on each branch.

"That's wonderful!" said Nehima, and as a compliment from her was virtually unattainable, Dantalion nearly blushed.

Joddy threw out his chest with pride. This nearly caused him to overbalance, as he was still being held up by the two other Wallmakers. He nodded happily as he gazed at the stone. "Those spells won't start fading for _years_," he said rapturously.

"Centuries," corrected Nehima.

"Millennia," chimed Felio.

They walked back to the palace – surrounded by guards, of course – with Joddy being tended to by a couple of good-natured soldiers. Along the way, Dantalion quietly informed the two Wallmaker Masters of the terrible news he had received that morning. Nehima gasped in shock, and Felio looked subdued. "So he was our first Charter casualty," he muttered.

"I never thought it would be him," said the blonde woman quietly.

Felio nodded his sober agreement. "He always seemed invincible," he said. "If there was anyone I thought who could conquer death… And to be killed in such a way…"

"How could this have happened?" the woman wondered aloud. "How could Lord Abhorsen have been killed by a stinking _Freeman_?"

Nobody had any answers, and they continued the journey in silence. As the three of them walked through the palace, each lost in their own gloomy thoughts, Dantalion's sharp eyes caught a bit of movement down one of the corridors. Someone was slinking furtively along the hall. He stopped, and Nehima nearly ran into him.

"Hey!" he called. "You there!"

The man turned, and Dantalion stared at who it was. Suddenly everything seemed to click into place.

The Prince did not make a sound. He just walked right up to the other man, grabbed him by the neck of his shirt, and slammed him against a pillar.

"My lord!" Felio said, sounding rather alarmed. "What's going on?"

Dantalion glared at the man whose throat he was squeezing, and replied, "This is the one responsible for Abhorsen's death."

"It's that spy rat," Nehima confirmed grimly. The expression on her face was thunderous. But Felio was still staring at the Prince as though he had lost his mind. Granted, this behaviour was quite out of character for Dantalion, and he knew it. He did not usually corner people in hallways and try to throttle them. But this spy, this _Alocas_, seemed to have found a way to shatter his composure every single time they met.

The young man's eyes bugged out, and he made a gagging sound as he tried to speak. Felio laid a hand gently on Dantalion's shoulder. "My lord, please," the Wallmaker said beseechingly.

The Prince relaxed his grip just enough to let the spy choke out, "Didn't – kill – not – fault – _argh!_"

"You cannot murder a man right here in the hall," Felio was saying quietly. "Let's at least find out what he has to say."

Dantalion frowned, but shifted his grip from the man's neck to the front of his shirt, pinning him to the pillar. "All right," he growled at the young spy. "Last night a necromancer killed Lord Abhorsen, and we had received no word of this plot. Why did you not tell us of it?"

Alocas shook his fair head. "I didn't know–"

"_You didn't know_?" Dantalion roared, losing control completely. He shook the other man in anger. "You've been our spy for eight years! How could you _not_ know?"

The Prince, through his fury, noticed that the other man was flinching at the rough treatment. He had a sudden idea, and forcibly pulled up Alocas' tunic, baring the young man's back. As he expected, it was criss-crossed with old scars and fresh welts – marks undoubtedly made by a whip.

"Charter preserve us," Felio murmured.

Nehima, however, was more explicit. "You _beast_!" she shrieked at the spy, who was struggling to pull his ragged tunic down to hide the marks. The blonde Wallmaker attacked him like a cat, spitting and hissing with nails bared. Dantalion half-expected her long braid to lash like a tail, and it was with some difficulty that Felio dragged the small woman back.

"So," said Dantalion, forcing himself to speak calmly. "You were tortured by the other side into confessing everything, and they asked you to turn double agent. Right? And then you helped them get to Abhorsen." He could feel his fists clenching, and struggled to calm down. He hardly ever lost his temper, but when he did he lost every vestige of control.

Alocas was leaning weakly against the pillar, gazing up at him in fear. "I confessed nothing," he rasped, massaging his bruised throat. "I do not deny that they tortured me. But I confessed nothing."

The Prince let out a snort of bitter laughter. "Right," he said scathingly. "I saw you on the rack, remember? You lasted only a couple of minutes."

A shadow passed over the spy's face. "I was a lot younger then," he replied evenly. "But I swear to you that I knew nothing of a new plot to kill Lord Abhorsen. I did not even know until now that he was dead."

"Why are you here, then?" Nehima demanded. She appeared calm, but her blue eyes were flashing fire. "Your instructions were to remain with the Free Magic faction and send us encoded messages. Why did you desert your post, if not to spy on us?"

Alocas looked around at the unforgiving faces, and licked his lips nervously. "B– because," he stammered, "I have some urgent news that was too dangerous to send in writing, encoded or not. I had to tell you in person."

Dantalion crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Then tell it."

_A/N: Whoa, I think Dantalion's berserker blood is beginning to kick in! He better watch that temper._

_Well, I don't know about you but I sure can't wait to get to the next chapter! It has to be written first, of course…_


	29. On Palace Hill

_A/N: My first fic to receive over 100 reviews – thank you so much! Lots of love to you all. _

_Thank you to anonymous reviewer _lem_. Glad you like the details. I couldn't resist with the lemon trees. The Sign of Three Lemons is one of my favourite settings in the books._

_Also thanks to anonymous reviewer _noaith ahsmi_. Actually, I intended for this story to be episodic, so the continuous plotbunny plot was quite unintentional. I'm afraid that this will be not one, not two stories with one title, but many._

Pied Flycatcher_, I haven't forgotten the truth spell, and _kirdane_, I haven't forgotten the Clayr; they will both come up in Chapter 32, I think. Thanks for the reminders. If anybody thinks of _anything_ that I might have forgotten, please tell me!_

**On Palace Hill**

Prince Dantalion glanced at Cassiel as they walked around the gates surrounding Palace Hill. Guards stood to attention as they passed, and a few of them looked curiously at the white dwarf trotting at Cassiel's side. It had been over a week, and Dantalion still couldn't quite believe that this young man was taking over Abhorsen's duties. But Cassiel did wear the sword and the bells, and even the blue surcoat. And Mogget was obeying him, which was a good sign.

They stopped at the main gate, and Dantalion spoke with one of the officers. "Guards stationed all around Palace Hill, sir," said Lieutenant Antares smartly. "Princess Penemue and the Royal children have been moved to the reservoir, as instructed."

Dantalion nodded absently, and glanced up at the sky. The sun was setting, and stars had already started to wink into life in the east. Alocas had delivered his "urgent news", and according to him the Freemen were going to attack the Palace – tonight. Having been foiled for twelve years in her attempts to destroy the Charter, Gamori had apparently grown desperate. Alocas claimed that the Freemen were to attack the palace en masse, kill the Royal family, and then continue on to Abhorsen's House and the Clayr's Glacier. It all struck Dantalion as a very foolhardy plan, but Alocas had told them that Gamori was becoming decidedly unstable.

Of course the Prince had not believed a word of it, but King Berillan had. And although Dantalion was officially ruling the Kingdom, he would never go against the express wishes of his father. So here he was now, patrolling the gates around Palace Hill with Cassiel Abhorsen and his stunted servant, preparing for an imaginary invasion of necromancers, sorcerers, witches, Freemen, and some of the Dead.

Dantalion noticed Cassiel leaning against the bars of the gate with his eyes closed. "Cassiel?" asked the Prince hesitantly.

The younger man opened his eyes and straightened up. "Sorry," he said, looking very distracted. "I was just…" He grabbed Dantalion by the arm and drew him away from the guards. "I can feel them coming," he explained in a whisper. "Many of the Dead. They're creeping through the streets, and they'll reach the palace in under an hour."

For a split second the Prince was frozen. Then he sprang into action. "Lieutenant!" he barked, and Antares jogged up to him. "Sir?"

"Prepare the men. Pass word along the gates that we should see the enemy within the hour." The lieutenant saluted and quickly got to work, and Dantalion turned to Cassiel. "Are you staying here?" The younger man indicated the surrounding streets hiding the Dead, and nodded. "Very well," said the Prince. He wanted to stay at the frontlines, but as ruler of the Kingdom his place was in the palace, surrounded nice and snug by hordes of guards. It nearly drove Dantalion mad, but he had to do it. His only solace was that his father would be there too. Perhaps they could distract one another.

"They are coming closer," said Cassiel in an undertone.

"Now will you loose my belt?" asked Mogget unexpectedly.

Cassiel did not even spare him a glance. "No."

The dwarf looked very put out, and Dantalion hid a smile as he said, "I'll take word to my father. Good luck, Cassiel Abhorsen." They shook hands, and Dantalion headed for the palace at a brisk walk.

He found his father within the throne room, noticing with satisfaction the numerous companies of guards posted all through the palace. Among them were Charter Mages, and all of the Wallmakers in Belisaere had been recruited to increase the ranks. Berillan stood in full armour, chatting with a nervous-looking Alocas. Once Dantalion had reported to his father, the King nodded in acceptance. "Nothing to do now but wait, I suppose."

Dantalion moved to lean casually against the wall, glaring at Alocas as he passed. He was glad for once that the spy was nearby. If Alocas turned against them, his neck was within easy reach.

The silence pervading the throne room was broken by the staccato sound of rapid footsteps on marble floor. A soldier sprinted through the doors and skidded to a stop before the alarmed Prince, chest heaving. Dantalion's hands instinctively shot to his swords when he saw that the man's upper arm was encircled by a bloody bandage.

"My – My Lord," the soldier panted. "M – Message from Lord C – Cassiel Abhorsen. The Freemen have breached the south-western gate and infiltrated Palace Hill–"

He was interrupted by another messenger dashing into the hall.

"My Lord Prince," she gasped, her eyes wide with panic. "A company of Freemen are attacking the palace! They are trying to force their way through the doors!"

There was immediate uproar.

Dantalion's first instinct was to go out and help the soldiers defend the palace, but he knew that as ruler of the Kingdom he could not jeopardize his life. "Barricade these doors," he ordered, frustrated at having to stay behind. "Have the men look to their posts." There was a moment of organized chaos as soldiers and guards and Mages rushed around, apparently for no reason. But soon the doors to the throne room had been closed and secured.

Footsteps, shouting, and the faint clashing of swords were heard. Dantalion unsheathed his two blades, and there was a sharp ringing sound as every person in the room – aside from the unarmed spy Alocas – drew his or her weapon. They waited in an agony of suspense as the sounds of battle came closer.

Suddenly, three or four of the guards pulled out lengths of material, winding them rapidly about their heads so that they were hooded and masked. Before Dantalion knew what was happening, those hooded guards had thrown open the doors of the throne room.

The Freemen swarmed through, and the room was soon full of skirmishing figures. Leading the invaders was a woman with a tangle of white hair, wielding a curved sword. She shouted a spell and several guards were blasted off their feet.

Dantalion moved forward to meet the witch, and sparks rained about them as their blades met. The Prince trapped the witch's sword with one of his blades, and made to strike her with the other, but a swift spell on her part sent him reeling away doubled over in pain. He looked down at the blood trickling from his side, which had been laid open by Free Magic. Heat rose to his face, and he felt the first twinges of anger.

The Prince glanced up to see his foe rushing at him holding a handful of green flames, and he raised his own palm to cast a spell. A ball of golden light knocked the witch to the ground. As Dantalion made to stab her, she swiped at him with her own blade, and he was forced to jump away.

She scrambled to her feet, and pointed with her sword. Silver needles spat out of the end of her blade and hissed as they sank into his skin. Dantalion let out a furious cry of pain, and threw one of his swords. It revolved once before piercing the witch's chest, and with a roar the Prince struck out with his other sword.

The witch's head rolled and came to rest at the base of the throne. Dantalion's pounding heart nearly stopped when he glimpsed his father: King Berillan was running a sorcerer through, but a tall hooded figure had crept up behind him holding a knife. The Prince opened his mouth to call out in warning, but a whole roomful of battling people separated them. But fate intervened. Before the figure could attack the King, someone brought a large marble bust of Dantalion's great-great grandfather smashing down on the attacker's head.

The hooded figure crumpled to the ground, and Prince Dantalion was shocked to see Alocas holding the remains of the bust.

There was a rush of sound as more guards poured into the throne room, having been called by the alarm. The Freemen were quickly rounded up, but Dantalion stood still, forcing himself to calm down. The sorcerers and witches were escorted by Charter Mages to special cells in the dungeons, but the other attackers who were of no immediate threat stayed in the throne room.

"Sir," an officer reported, standing to attention despite the blood dripping from his arm. "The Freemen have been defeated throughout the palace grounds."

Dantalion nodded. "Very good. Send out the word to have all sorcerers and witches taken to the dungeons, and for all non-magic prisoners to be brought to the throne room."

The officer saluted and made off, while Dantalion turned to survey the prisoners. They were a rag-tag bunch, a mixture of spies like Alocas, and hooded and masked agents. Kneeling among them were the four guards who had opened the doors to the throne room.

Dantalion went over to where his father and Alocas were gazing down at the unconscious hooded man whom Alocas had knocked – with a priceless marble bust of King Egratom. Berillan pulled back the hood of the tall figure to find a fair-haired man. Dantalion instantly recognized the face as one adorning posters all over the Kingdom. "Devon Tuli!"

Alocas stared down at the man, who was hardly more than a boy. "The assassin? But he did not work for the Freemen!"

"He must have been hired for this very occasion," said Berillan mildly as if not at all perturbed that he had almost been killed by one of the most notorious assassins in the land. "Check the other prisoners to see if they're members of the Freemen or not."

Guards moved among the kneeling prisoners, baring left hips of the men and left shoulders of the women to look for the spiralling tattoos. More prisoners were being brought in, and Dantalion glanced up to see Cassiel striding through the door. The young man's usual smile was gone, and he was tugging a very battered-looking officer beside him.

"There," said Cassiel with an air of finality, shoving the officer to the ground. "Lieutenant Antares was a Freeman agent."

"What?" gasped Dantalion, who immediately wanted to smack himself on the forehead for sounding so brainless.

The young Lord nodded grimly. "He attacked me while I was busy warding off the Dead, which allowed the Freemen to breach the gates. I eventually subdued him, as you can see."

"And the Dead?" questioned Berillan, joining in the conversation.

Cassiel inclined his head slightly. "Only moments ago the Dead suddenly ran wild, and we destroyed them. I suspect the necromancer controlling them was killed or knocked unconscious."

The Prince turned to his father. "Wasn't Gamori the only necromancer left among the Freemen?" he asked casually. The King nodded.

"I'll go down to the reservoir," Cassiel volunteered. "I saw a large group of Freemen break in through the ornamental caves. Gamori probably went down there."

"Get Penemue and the children out of the reservoir," Dantalion called after him, and Cassiel waved absently over his shoulder in acknowledgement.

When he was gone, Dantalion and Berillan turned back to the captives. The Guards were unmasking the agents, and Dantalion was shocked at how many faces he recognized. Aside from Lieutenant Antares and several palace guards, there was Lady Kasdaye, a prominent noblewoman of the court; the innkeeper Otis who was famous for his squid stew; and Wallmaker Craftsman Joderan, or Joddy, who had helped Dantalion with the Lesser Stone among the lemon trees.

"Sir," said one of the guards, indicating even more of the agents with her bandaged hand. "This is Master Wallmaker Furce, who we all thought was dead. He's the one responsible for making the necromancers' bells. And the apprentice Wallmaker Lytha over there, she stole the plans to the Great Stones…" The list went on, names of traitors to the Kingdom who had been feeding information to the Freemen for years.

And then there were the spies, none of whom Dantalion recognized. He suspected that, like Alocas, they had been disguised by Free Magic when working undercover. The Prince motioned for them all to be taken down to the dungeons, and the men and women were shepherded out of the room by stone-faced guards. There was little pity for traitors in Belisaere.

A messenger squeezed through the door, and bowed hastily to Dantalion and Berillan. "Your majesties," he said, "Master Felio sends word that the necromancer Gamori has been captured. She is in the dungeons as I speak."

Dantalion glanced at his father, who smiled grimly and inclined his head. "I'll go see her when we are finished here," Prince Dantalion told the messenger, who bowed and made himself scarce. The prince ran his hand through his hair, and turned to face Berillan. "What are we to do with the prisoners?" he asked in an undertone.

King Berillan stroked his chin. "We should try to turn them, I think. It worked with Alocas, after all. Those who will not turn can remain in the dungeons."

"We cannot do that," Dantalion argued. "We got lucky with Alocas. It's far too difficult to separate the instigators from the followers. And no matter what their reasons are, every single one of those spies and agents are guilty of treason. I might have absolved them before, but this attack on the Royal family, this participation in a desperate plot to wipe out the Charters, condemns them all."

"Condemns them to what?" asked Berillan quietly.

Dantalion's mouth twisted. "Death."

"No!"

They turned to see Alocas, who had been standing quietly to the side, but had heard every word. The spy shook his head, taking a hesitant step forward. "No," he repeated. "You cannot kill them!"

Dantalion raised an eyebrow. "I have already made my decision," he declared coldly. "They are all to be hanged publicly."

"All of them?" asked the horrified spy.

The Prince felt his lips lifting into a sneer. "And you can watch them hang," he said to Alocas. "I will spare your life, but watching your friends breathe their last will be punishment enough for trying to kill my daughter." Dantalion was aware of his father's disapproval, but he did not care.

Alocas, however, was almost frantic. "Spare some of them," he pleaded. "Please, spare the lives of the spies at least. They joined the Freemen out of poverty, not out of malice."

The Prince said nothing, but Alocas did not give up.

"Well, spare three lives," he urged. "Only three lives. My friend Danel, his wife Nammah, and Vassago. They do not deserve this fate."

"Danel?" repeated Dantalion, having heard the name before. "He was your spy partner, correct? Well, if you are as innocent as you say you are, then he was the one who told the Freemen how to break the Lesser Stones. Do you know how many Charter Mages died because of that?"

"Just one life, then," Alocas begged, looking near tears. "Just Vassago. He's only a boy, recruited less than a month ago. And – he is my cousin."

The Prince shook his head. "Then you should have kept him away."

At the appalled expression on the other man's face, Dantalion felt a pang of remorse. He quickly suppressed it, and not even Berillan's disapproving expression could persuade him to change his mind. "I am not you, father," he said in an undertone.

The King nodded slowly. "You're right, of course. The Kingdom is yours. I will not interfere."

Dantalion turned to head down to the dungeons with Alocas, accompanied by guards. Berillan stopped him with a hand on his arm, but Alocas and the guards carried on. "My father – your grandfather – suffered from a berserker rage," said the King. "In my youth I sometimes inexplicably went mad, or lost my temper, but I learned to control it. Do not let these irrational feelings control you, Dantalion."

The Prince bit his lip. "I know I feel these sentiments around Alocas," he admitted, "But I also know that my decision was rational."

As he turned to leave, a soldier sprinted through the doors. "My Lords," he puffed, bent over nearly double. "The assassin Devon Tuli has escaped!"

"No prison could ever hold him," Berillan murmured.

Dantalion gave a shrug. "He wasn't technically a member of the Freemen. And now that they're overcome he won't be of any danger to us personally. Let's let him be, this time." He strolled past the surprised soldier, heading for the dungeons.

_A/N: Fun facts: the names of all the Freemen are all based on names of minor demons. This includes Alocas, Danel, and Vassago, although I consider them 'good guys' compared to the rest. I'd hate to think that you guys credit me for coming up with so many names!_

_EvilDonut, did you recognize yourself in this chapter? I hope you did; your name was an anagram. Let's just say I got inspired by one of your earlier reviews But I didn't kill you – or the King, for that matter!_

_And thanks go to Lady of the Outlaws for asking long ago about the Royal Family's berserker blood. PiCCaMoP forever!_


	30. Under Palace Hill

_A/N: I haven't been receiving review alerts or PMs, so if you've reviewed or messaged me and I haven't replied, that's why._

_To _atomic noodle_: Thanks for the review! As for Prince Dan being nice to Alocas, well… we'll see, won't we? And the Clayr are coming up later. They will be featured in chapter 32 if all goes according to plan, so that's a little something to look forward to!_

_I'll take this opportunity to issue a _swear word warning_ for this chapter – but it's one that Garth Nix used in "Lirael", so you should be fine. This chapter takes place during the last bit of the previous chapter. If you recall, Cassiel Abhorsen left the throne room to go down to the reservoir…_

**Under Palace Hill**

Cassiel strolled through the hallway, whistling softly between his teeth. He glanced out of a window and saw the sun just starting to rise. The Freemen had struck during the night, and it was hard to believe that it was daylight already.

Around him guards were rushing about, tending to the wounded and leading their captives through the halls. The young Lord stood to the side as no less than five Charter Mages escorted a sorcerer down to the dungeons. He too was looking for a staircase, but he had a different destination in mind.

The doorway to the reservoir was locked, of course. Luckily Cassiel had been down there once. His father had taken him to see the Great Stones, and he knew what to look for. Lord Abhorsen ran his white hands over the arched wooden door, which was inlaid with little towers of gold. Cassiel felt a tiny throb of power zip through his fingertips, and grinned at having successfully located the key. Raising a hand to push aside his black hair, Cassiel touched his forehead to one of the golden towers. The Charter mark on his brow flashed momentarily, and the door creaked open.

Cassiel found himself faced with a massive staircase that could hold eight men abreast. He called out a Charter mark for light, which hovered just above his head and cast a weak yellowish glow. The steps sank before him into the gloom.

"_This_ is the way to the reservoir?"

The young man glanced down at Mogget, who was peering around his legs suspiciously. "Yes indeed. Kind of gloomy for a part of the palace, isn't it?"

The dwarf wrinkled his nose in disgust. "It's damp."

Cassiel rolled his eyes and set off down the steps, Charter light floating above him. As he walked he listened to Mogget muttering under his breath. Mogget seemed to be doing that a lot lately, ever since his father had died. He hoped the strange creature wasn't planning a mutiny.

About fifty steps down, a hand closed around Cassiel's ankle and he nearly jumped out of his skin. His Charter light flared into life, illuminating the battered face of a woman. Her teeth were broken, and her hair was covered by a green hood stained with blood. She sneered up at him.

"You serve the Charter," she said, face twisting into a grimace.

"I do," Cassiel answered, trying to remain calm. Slowly, he inched his hand towards his sword, endeavouring not to draw her attention to the fact. True, she did not look very dangerous, but it never hurt to be on your guard.

The woman coughed, and blood trickled from her mouth onto the steps. She was dying. "I scorn you," she wheezed, fingers tightening on his leg. "Your status may be high among these people, but I serve a greater power than you. I am more than you can ever hope to be."

"Oh really?" asked the young man. He gripped the handle of his sword tighter, hiding the action under his cloak. "And who are you, exactly?"

The woman rolled her head to glare at him with one bright eye. "My name is Veloria," she snarled. "And I am a follower of the Ancient Ways." She moved fast, pulling his foot towards her with one hand and bringing up her knife with the other. But Cassiel was faster. He drew his sword, and soon the woman was screaming as she stared at her gushing stump of an arm. Another slash silenced her forever.

Mogget took a careful step forward and turned up his nose at the body. "One of the necromancer's henchmen," he sniffed. "No great loss there, master."

Cassiel was too tired to even glare at the dwarf, and they continued down the steps as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. In fact, in this day and age, being attacked by a half-dead henchman wasn't such a rare occurrence.

After a couple of minutes they could see a yellow glow ahead, and soon Cassiel did not need his Charter light anymore. In the gloom, he could make out pillars edging a vast chamber, and people were moving about in the water. The young man nearly stumbled over another body on the steps, and bent to examine it. A lift of the shirt confirmed that it too was a Freeman, and quite dead.

"Who goes there?"

Someone had been crouching on the steps, and now stood with raised hands ready to cast a spell. Cassiel spread his arms, showing his blue and silver surcoat. "I am Lord Cassiel Abhorsen," he said. The figure gave a short bow and muttered an apology, and Cassiel edged by. He could see in the torchlight the bodies of guards and Freemen sprawled over the steps. The surviving guards were tending the wounded, and nodded as he passed by.

"So many injured and killed," the young man whispered.

Beside him, Mogget snorted. "If you had loosed my belt, my Lord, I would have had the power to stand up to all of the Freemen."

"If I had loosed your belt, Mogget, you would have tried to kill me without a thought."

The dwarf neither confirmed nor denied his words, and they carried on in silence until Cassiel came to the final step. He edged into the water, which lapped at his waist. It was cold, and the young man sucked in a breath at the shock before taking a determined step forward. He jumped as something warm and furry landed on his shoulder, and glanced over to see a white cat with a red collar. "What are you doing, Mogget?" asked Cassiel suspiciously. He was aware of his servant's shape-shifting abilities, but Mogget hardly ever changed form.

The cat graced him with a particularly patronizing look. "I do not want to get my feet wet." Green eyes darted from side to side. "Besides, this water is so deep that I would have been completely submerged. And I did not feel like swimming."

Cassiel set off towards the Great Stones in the distance, careful not to splash. He passed guards and Charter Mages, and paused to have his mark checked. Finally he came to the circle of stones.

On a barge within the protection of the circle were the three Royal children. Six very powerful Charter Mages had been stationed to protectively surround the stones. Now that the battle was over, four of them had gathered around something that was glowing, and the other two were talking to a blonde woman wearing a moonstone circlet.

The Clayr, Princess Penemue, looked up and smiled when she spotted him. The two Mages she had been talking to turned around, and Cassiel recognized the Wallmakers Felio and Nehima. Penemue hurried forward, water sloshing around her waist. "What happened?" she asked breathlessly before she had reached him. "Is everyone safe?"

"Yes, everyone – Dantalion included – is safe." Cassiel winked at her. "The Freemen did break into the throne room, but we managed to apprehend them."

"And nobody important got hurt," Mogget added from his perch on Cassiel's shoulder. He sounded almost disappointed.

"We have some good news for you too," said Felio, wading up to them with Nehima at his side. "We captured Gamori."

Cassiel did a mental double-take. "You – what?"

"That's right," nodded the dark-haired Wallmaker. "She's right over there."

The younger man turned and stared at the other four Charter Mages gathered around a glowing figure. It was a person, wreathed in golden light and suspended horizontally between the Mages. Some of the marks binding the necromancer seemed familiar, and Cassiel recognized them as ones he had seen on Mogget's collar. It appeared that the Wallmakers were to thank for this.

"How did you capture her?" Cassiel demanded, staring as the Mages carried Gamori towards the staircase. "Who did it?"

"It was Nehima," said Felio with great pride. "While Gamori's witches and sorcerers kept the rest of us busy, Nehima managed to wound the necromancer and knock her unconscious. Once that was done, it was pretty easy to bind her. Being near the stones helped our Charter Magic."

"Really?" demanded Mogget. He had been examining Gamori with sharp eyes. "You expect me to believe that some immature Wallmaker defeated Gamori the necromancer single-handedly?"

"That's right," Nehima confirmed merrily. "Besides, it takes a bitch to catch one."

Cassiel had to fight down a laugh, and near his ear he heard Mogget mumble, "In that case, we should have called Kibeth."

The small group waded over to the Great Stones, and Cassiel started at the sudden rush of energy he got from passing into the circle. Penemue took her youngest child, Sitri, into her arms. Felio allowed Prince Andromis to clamber onto his back. And as the tallest one present, it fell to Cassiel to scoop gangly Princess Farelle into his arms. She held tightly to the front of his surcoat, shivering with more than just cold. He could tell that she was frightened, but her face was expressionless. Quite a brave girl.

They headed back towards the steps, inching carefully around the floating bodies of slain Freemen. As Cassiel carefully set the Princess on her feet, she finally spoke. "I like your cat."

Mogget jumped delicately from Cassiel's shoulders onto the steps and promptly changed back into an albino dwarf. "That is a terrible shame," he said to the flabbergasted Princess, "because I much prefer a shape that allows me to see more than eight inches off the ground, thank you very much."

"Mogget, why don't you go hang yourself or do something equally useful?"

"Is that an order, my Lord?" hissed the albino. "Because if it is, it won't do any good. A mere hanging would not come close to killing me."

Cassiel crossed his arms. "Pity. In that case, would you mind leading the way back up to the palace? Oh, and count the steps while you're at it – that should help you pass the time."

The Dwarf stomped off grumbling about having to carry out foolish trivialities for a child with a sword. Cassiel turned to the Princess and gave her an encouraging smile. "Sorry about him," he said, nodding back at Mogget. "He's a servant of the family. A bit testy sometimes, though. Shall we?" He held out his arm, and the young Princess took it after only slight hesitation. "Last time I met you," said the young man, "you were nine, and I was eighteen. I only saw you for a minute though. I hardly recognized you just now."

They climbed up the steps, and Cassiel tried to keep up his inane chatter to distract the girl, both from the oppressive darkness, and from the dead and wounded guards they passed. From the expression on her face as she gazed around her, he wasn't succeeding very well. "How are your studies coming along?" he asked, then immediately wanted to smack himself for asking something so stupid. Farelle merely looked at him and raised her eyebrow in a manner eerily similar to Tirelle, and Cassiel knew that she thought him pretty daft for asking, as well.

"Were you with my father during the attack?" she asked after a short silence.

Cassiel bit his lip and shook his head. "No. I was outside, by the gates. Your father was with the King."

"Why were you outside? It was dangerous. _I_ would not have made you stay out there."

The young man reached up with his free hand to brush his bandolier. "I am Lord Abhorsen," he grinned. "And call me crazy, but it was my choice to stay outside. Part of my job is to be wherever any dead things pop up to terrorize innocent people."

The Princess cracked a small smile. "Very dramatic, Lord Abhorsen."

"Dramatic but entirely true," he answered with an exaggerated courtly bow.

Farelle actually giggled at that. She glanced up as her face was touched by the glow from the open doorway ahead. "How many steps did we just climb up?"

"One hundred and fifty-six," answered a pert voice from the area around Cassiel's waist.

He looked down into a pair of glaring green eyes. "Thank you, Mogget," said the young man through clenched teeth.

They stepped out into the palace hall, blinking in the bright light cast by torches and Charter Marks. An elderly woman in palace livery stood nearby, ready to escort the children to their rooms. Farelle relinquished Cassiel's hand with reluctance, and gave him a shy smile over her shoulder as she left.

"I think she's taken with you." Cassiel turned to see Penemue smiling at him. "Thirteen years old, and she chooses _you_ as her next crush, of all people."

"Well, she is obviously a young woman of good taste." Mogget gave him an incredulous stare.

Felio and Nehima strolled up to them, Nehima still wringing water out of her long braid. Puddles were gathering around their feet as they stood. "Shall we go on to the dungeons?" asked Felio. "We can see Gamori, and I've received word that the Prince will meet us down there."

As the four humans and one dwarf walked through the palace, Cassiel chatted with Penemue. "This was obviously carefully-planned," he was saying. "They coordinated all of their movements, and the agents revealed themselves only at critical times. That was how they were able to get past me and through the gate in the first place."

The Princess nodded thoughtfully. "It does make sense," she sighed. "It just saddens me that so many people we trusted and thought we knew turned out to be traitors. You say that Lieutenant Antares turned on you. From anyone else I would call it falsehood."

"They had many contacts within the palace. And once they were inside the gates, they knew exactly where to go. I suppose the witch Carabia went looking for the throne room, and Gamori headed a second force into the reservoir."

Penemue involuntarily shuddered. "They got so close," she whispered. "I was with my children, and there was a moment when she looked right at me."

The young man placed a hand on her shoulder. "Yes, but they didn't succeed, did they? She was taken, by Nehima of all people! You know that none of us would ever let anything happen to your children."

They had reached the stairway to the dungeons, and the sounds coming up to them were terrible. People were screaming in pain, cursing, and pleading for their lives. Penemue and Cassiel shared a glance, and went down together.

The dusty prison was full, with three and sometimes four people sharing a single cramped cell. Freemen agents and spies were strung up by their wrists and ankles, and shackled all along the walls. At the far end of the room was a door leading to Charter-spelled cells of bronze designed to hold witches and sorcerers.

Nehima was speaking with a Mage, and Felio hurriedly explained to them, "They put Gamori in a separate room. Nehima and I want to check the binding spells." Penemue waved her hand in permission, and the two Wallmakers disappeared through a heavy wooden door.

They were unable to go near the walls, so Cassiel and Penemue stood in the middle of the dungeon as they waited for Dantalion. The Clayr was hugging her arms to her chest, and Cassiel looked at her in concern. She caught his glance and smiled apologetically. "It's just – I've never been down here before," she explained.

"I've never been down here before, either," admitted Cassiel.

They heard footsteps, and turned to see Alocas stumble into the dungeons surrounded by guards. Despite what Dantalion kept insisting, it seemed that Alocas truly had been loyal to them. This allegiance to the Kingdom had resulted in the capture of his former friends and allies. Alocas seemed to be in a state of shock, and Cassiel almost pitied him – _almost_. He knew the life of a spy to be a dangerous one, a life that almost never ended happily.

Another person was descending the steps, and Cassiel caught Penemue's eye. Dantalion was here, which meant that it was time to interrogate Gamori. He was not at all looking forward to facing the necromancer, helpless as she was. And by the look in her eyes, the Clayr was frightened too.

_A/N: There you go, ValorieJueles! Celebrate your guest appearance as Short-Lived Henchman #1. I couldn't do the green hair, so will you be satisfied with the green hood?_

_By the way, I think Nehima had a snappy line: "It takes a bitch to catch one." Although I rather liked Mogget's comeback, too. Next chapter: Gamori tells all. But until then, reviews please? _


	31. The Ancient Ways

_A/N: Special thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter – I love you all! By the way – you may be pleased to know that you are reading the longest Garth Nix fanfic on this website! Or you may be thinking, "What the heck am I doing with my time?" In any case, it's an interesting statistic. And now we get to talk to Gamori! That should be a happy meeting, shouldn't it? No?_

**The Ancient Ways**

Dantalion blinked as he entered the gloom of the dungeons, surprised at the number of prisoners he saw. He could never remember the cells being this full before. Penemue moved to embrace him, and he kissed her forehead. "The children?"

"They're fine," his wife assured him. She was damp from the waist down, having wasted no time in coming here from the reservoir. "I was worried sick about you."

"What? Lady Clayr did not See that I would return to her safe and sound?" he teased.

Penemue crossed her arms, trying to look irritated, but she could not suppress a smile. "I do not See by choice," she reminded him. "Glimpses. Flashes. Not nearly enough to reassure me. And contrary to what you may think, my Prince, not all of my visions are about _you_."

"Pity," Dantalion remarked.

"Have we had enough of the sweet talk?" someone remarked. Dantalion turned in time to see Cassiel smack his strange dwarf servant upside the head. The dwarf actually bared his sharp little teeth at that, but if he meant to retaliate he was interrupted by a commotion: sounds of a tussle came to them from further down in the dungeons.

They rushed over to see one of the spies screaming at Alocas. "How could you?" he shouted as two guards struggled to subdue him, even though he was chained to the grimy walls. "All this time, you knew that the attack was a set-up. You _knew_! And now Nammah is dead because of it!" Obviously an emotional wreck, Alocas seemed unable to think of anything to say to his friend.

Shackled beside the struggling spy, a very young Freeman raised his head wearily. Dantalion saw that his scalp was bleeding. "Do not be foolish, Danel," the young spy murmured. "Alocas would never betray us… would never…" From the muzzy way he was speaking, the Prince knew that he had suffered a severe blow to the head.

For his part, Alocas looked back and forth between the two chained spies, and finally settled on Danel as the one to address. "I told you to run," he choked out. "Why did you not run?" His friend's answer was to spit at him, and Alocas turned and fled from the dungeons. Dantalion listened to him stumbling up the winding staircase, and nodded at two guards to follow the spy.

In the shocked silence that followed, Penemue finally spoke up. "If his cousin here dies," she whispered, nodding at the younger spy, "Alocas will not survive the night."

Cassiel frowned in consternation. "He will take his own life?"

"Yes," said the Clayr. "Would you not do the same?"

Dantalion was feeling very uncomfortable. "He would be a casualty of war, then," he said, striving to keep his expression stern. Before anyone could say anything else, they were interrupted by a Charter Mage, whose knees knocked as he informed them that the necromancer Gamori was waking up.

They gathered in a separate torture room, the same one where Dantalion had overseen the interrogation of Alocas twelve years ago. The necromancer was strapped down to a table with bands of bronze which crawled with Charter marks. Dantalion was astonished by her beauty, and she could have been any age at all. She wore fine blue silk and a snakeskin swordbelt, and her weapons and jewels littered a side table. Felio and Nehima stood by her head, having placed the spells which were restraining her.

As they gathered by the side of the table Dantalion glanced at the master torturer, silently wishing that the Charter Mages would hurry up and devise a working truth-spell.

Gamori's eyes slid open, and they travelled languidly over Felio, Nehima, Dantalion, and Penemue before resting on Cassiel. "Greetings, little lord," she said. Her voice sent unpleasant shivers up the Prince's spine. "You look so much like your father."

The young Lord's eyes hardened, but he said nothing. Beside him, Mogget was staring at the necromancer in rapt fascination.

"I was so sorry to hear of his death," the necromancer said drowsily. "I knew him long ago, before he ever agreed to work for that fool of a King." At the slight to his father, Dantalion started forward, but Penemue placed a hand on his arm and shot him a look of warning. "Such a pity that he was killed by the necromancer Raum," Gamori continued. "I had meant to do it myself. But Raum was always impetuous, and killing Gabriel without my permission was not the first time he disobeyed me."

She sighed, and Dantalion suddenly noticed that she was wounded. Her side was bandaged and stained heavily with blood. It was mortal. Gamori seemed to be aware of the little time she had left, and as she seemed to be in a talkative mood, he silently dismissed the master torturer from the room.

"Carabia was better at following directions," said the necromancer. "Tell me, what happened to her?"

"Your witch?" said Dantalion. "I killed her."

Those cold eyes turned to rest on him, and Gamori smiled. "Good for you, Prince," she smirked. "Did you ever wonder why you have so few siblings left? My friend Carabia had a hand in that. Oh yes," she said at his expression of surprise. "She tricked your sister into wandering into the reservoir as a young girl, where the little thing drowned. Tragic, that. And when she and I started to work together, she made your other sister's horse mad so that she was thrown. Carabia had a knack for making murders look like accidents. Your poor father never suspected."

The Prince was floored by this revelation. He could feel that old, old anger building up inside him, but with an effort he tamped it down and took a shaky breath. "Well, in that case I am glad I killed her."

"Your older brother's death, however, was not her doing," Gamori continued as if she had not heard him. "He was killed by a necromancer in the north, was he not?" Her smirk widened into a malicious grin. "Crown Prince Forcalor was so _brave_ for a boy of sixteen."

Penemue's fingers were now digging into his arm, and Dantalion barely managed to restrain himself from attacking the necromancer. She was obviously dying, and they needed to find out all that they could – throttling her would do no good.

"Unfortunately," said Gamori, "Free Magic does not work so well in Ancelstierre, so we were not able to get to Princess Merabel." She turned her head slightly to look at Felio and Nehima. "Your Wall appears to be working after all, unfinished as it is," she sneered.

"Delighted to hear it," said Nehima, although she did not look delighted at all. In fact, she looked rather ill.

"It is a shame that you Wallmakers cannot keep _all_ of your secrets," Gamori purred. Her eyes started to become distant, and Dantalion could almost feel her spirit slipping away. He knew that Cassiel certainly could. "Thanks to the Freemen, every witch, sorcerer, and necromancer out there knows that Charter blood can break the Great Stones, and that blood of a Charter Mage can break the Lesser Stones." Her breath hitched, and a look of pain flashed across her face. The crimson stain on her side was spreading. "There are others out there still devoted to the Ancient Ways," she sighed. "They would see the Charter destroyed… Some day they will…"

Her eyes fluttered closed, and her breathing grew laboured. Dantalion heard a soft chime that made him stifle a yawn, and turned to see that Cassiel had rung a small bell to ease Gamori's passing. She was gone.

"That was a kindness she did not deserve," said Felio.

Cassiel gave a small shrug. "It is better for all if she goes peacefully."

They were all silent for a long moment, gazing down at the still face of the woman who had caused them so much grief. In death her face had changed. Small lines of care were now discernable around the eyes and the corners of the mouth, attesting to her true age. Strands of white were visible in Gamori's golden hair, and the healthy flush of her skin had faded to a wan, tired grey. Dantalion realized that this was what she would have looked like, had she not been corrupted by Free Magic. She was no longer the feared necromancer Gamori, but merely an elderly woman.

True to form, it was Nehima who first spoke up. "She was right, you know," said the Master Wallmaker. "All of our enemies know how to defeat us. And with the Shining Ones leaving, the Charter is weak. I mean, they were the ones who protected the Charter. And now the Charter can be broken with _your_ shed blood." Her gesture encompassed Penemue, Dantalion, and Cassiel.

"Nobody can kill the remaining Shining Ones, at Least," said Cassiel in an endeavour to lift the gloomy mood.

"But Yrael was bound," Felio pointed out, looking troubled.

From the corner of the room, Mogget scowled. "Thank you so very much for reminding me." They all ignored him.

"He was originally bound by the Seven," replied Dantalion, "not by any mortal hand. It would take great power indeed to bind a Shining One, let alone destroy one." He was feeling very tired, and resisted the urge to rub at his eyes.

"When the Seven were here the Charter was virtually indestructible," Penemue agreed. "But the Shining Ones will soon be gone, and it will be down to us, and our descendents." Dantalion reached out to take her hand, giving it a comforting squeeze.

Nehima impatiently flung her braid over her shoulder, narrowly missing Felio's head. "So what do we do now?"

It was Cassiel who answered: "We guard the Stones, and guard ourselves. We trust in the Charter to preserve us all."

Prince Dantalion glanced around at the others, and they all wore the same determined look.

"Well, that's settled," said Nehima brightly, clapping her hands to break the mood. "We have a lot of work to do. Should we go and see to the wounded, then?" Nehima, Felio, Cassiel, and a bad-tempered Mogget filed out of the room, but Penemue stopped Dantalion. They were alone with the corpse of a necromancer, but the Prince did not really notice. His attention was entirely focussed upon the fact that his wife was weeping.

"What is it?" he asked helplessly.

Penemue sniffed and scrubbed at her eyes. "I understand now," she sobbed. "I understand my old vision." She gulped and made a visible effort to steady herself, and Dantalion caught her hands in his. "The man in blue and the man in red…"

The Prince nodded encouragingly. "The man in blue was Cassiel, and he was burning his father's body."

"Yes," said the Clayr. "But the man in red… it was you, Dan."

He stared at his wife, and forced himself to ask the obvious question. "And who was I burning?"

Penemue lowered her eyes, and whispered, "Farelle." Faced with Dantalion's shocked silence, the woman hurried to explain. "What I was Seeing was the first Charter Bloodline fatality. Because we trusted Alocas, Lord Abhorsen was the first one of us to die. If we had not sent Alocas back to the Freemen, it would have been Farelle. The first assassination prevented due to Alocas' information was another one on Farelle."

The Prince shook his head, barely able to understand what his wife was saying to him. She tugged at his hands, and he looked into her eyes. Her expression was earnest. "The man who was supposed to have killed our daughter years ago saved her life."

Dantalion left the room with his thoughts whirling. He had spent years hating the spy, and now it turned out that he owed him his daughter's life. The concept was too astonishing to fully grasp.

"Sir!" A messenger bobbed her head respectfully. "The people of the city are at the gates. They demand that justice be done to the attackers."

"They shall not be disappointed," murmured Dantalion as he rubbed his chin. "Tell them that the prisoners are to be hung in the Main Square, starting tomorrow morning. Have the word spread about the city." The messenger bowed again and scurried off.

On his way out of the dungeons, the Prince stopped to look at the young spy with the head injury. If he recalled correctly, this was Vassago, the young cousin of Alocas. He called over one of the guards.

"Release this boy and take him to Alocas," he ordered quietly. "They are to be escorted back to their village as soon as he is fit to travel. Master Alocas needn't witness the executions. Warn them never to show their faces in Belisaere again." The guard saluted, and soon an unconscious Vassago had been borne from the dungeons.

A life for a life. Dantalion had repaid a debt unknowingly owed to Alocas, and they were even now. He knew that they would never cross paths again, and he was glad of it.

_A/N: See? Dantalion can be merciful – only when his wife guilts him into it, though. I find it kind of ironic that trusting Farelle's potential assassin actually saved her life. I also find it ironic that Cassiel's vote concerning Alocas was the deciding one (see chapter 20, when they all vote to see if Alocas should turn spy for them), and as a consequence he had to burn his father's body. God, I love irony. Or that could just be my strange sense of humour._

_As you may have noticed, the power has now been passed on to the second generation. Just to keep you guys up to speed on things, over twenty years have passed since the first chapter. Time really flies, doesn't it? And speaking of time flying, this is the end of this little plotline. For the next chapter, we'll be jumping forward two years. See you then!_


	32. Starmount and Sunfall

_A/N: Big thanks to Pied Flycatcher, Vanilla Bean CEO, kat3e, EvilDonut, kirdane, Dickens, and Lady of the Outlaws for your delightful reviews. And to all you lurkers out there, too! Now, you're probably wondering how long this cancerous mass that was once a charming little story is going to drag on for. I've decided that it will be 37 chapters long, plus Appendices. So, let's get going, shall we? It's about time that we saw the Clayr again…_

**Starmount and Sunfall**

Gressa brushed her bangs away from her sweaty forehead, and squinted against the blinding light of the sun. She glanced behind her at the young teenaged boy who was labouring uphill in the snow. When he finally came to a stop beside her, face red from cold and exertion, his grey eyes widened. Together they looked over a magnificent vista.

The two of them were standing on top of a glacier, and spread out before them was the vast expanse of the Kingdom. Fields and wild forests tangled together in a mesh of gold and green. Far pale shores melted into the gleaming ocean. Mount Aunden gouged up into the sky, its peak wreathed in clouds. Below her Gressa could see where the snow on the mountains gave way to bristling evergreens, eventually dwindling into the golden fields of the south.

Sometimes she missed those miniscule verdant lands, but the glacier was becoming more of a home to her these days. Construction was not quite finished yet, but the main parts of her family's chosen abode were perfectly habitable.

"Wow," the boy gasped, leaning over with his hands on his thighs to catch his breath. "Amazing."

Gressa smiled. "Isn't it? And your father rules over it all. Scary thought."

Prince Andromis wrinkled his nose at the implied slight against his father, but did not retort. Instead, he turned to ogle the magnificent view.

Gressa sat down in the snow and pulled her rucksack from her back. Her nephew plunked down beside her, still staring. She thought it odd that a thirteen-year-old boy could be so captivated by the sight of the Kingdom sprawled out before them, but then she reflected that it should come as no surprise, considering Penemue's tendency to stare into the distance. Gressa shook her head as she pulled a dense loaf of bread from her pack. It was full of dried fruit, and very good to travel on. They broke off pieces and munched on the loaf in companionable silence.

"That's Starmount," said Gressa, waving a gloved hand at the peak on their left. "And that's Sunfall," she said, motioning to the peak on their right. "Our home lies within those two mountains, and this glacier between them that we're sitting on." She patted the snow beside her. "It used to be called the Moon's Mirror."

"And now it's called the Clayr's Glacier," noted Andromis, taking a gulp from his waterskin. Gressa decided that he looked very much like her sister Penemue, but had his father's grey eyes.

Penemue had arrived that morning with her children to visit the glacier. Although the three Royal children were delighted to see their aunts and grandmother, there was another purpose for this visit. The two young Princesses were to be tested. If their Sight was strong enough, it would warrant them a future place in the glacier. Unlike their cousins, who had been born after the founding of the Fourth Charter, powerful Sight was not guaranteed.

Of course, this was of absolutely no interest to Prince Andromis, who had never shown any signs of prophecy. Gressa had obligingly taken her nephew along on a scouting trip, showing him the various forms of northern wildlife. Gressa was surprised that the boy had never seen the tracks of a russet bear before. In the course of their ramble they had been followed by an ice otter. Gressa had found and cared for him two years ago, and he was a funny little thing that enjoyed dogging her footsteps whenever she wandered the forests of Sunfall.

"Think your grandmother's done with your sisters yet?" asked Gressa, brushing crumbs from her lap.

Andromis shrugged indifferently. "I don't know." He picked at the stitching on his fur-lined boots. "My sisters are annoying anyway. Farelle can be incredibly bossy, and Sitri always climbs into my lap whenever I sit down. I don't know how you can stand having _six_ sisters, when two are more than enough."

"I was raised by my uncle," said Gressa, adjusting the strap on her quiver. "He was a blacksmith, and had three sons. So it was really like having a whole lot of big brothers. I only just started living with my sisters after Mosrael… well, you know what he did."

The Prince frowned at her. "So you didn't really know your sisters? Why?"

"Your grandmother was a very busy woman as the Clayr," said Gressa, stuffing the rest of the loaf into her rucksack. "She did not have time to raise children. Your aunts Neryl, Cimeri, and Berithi, and your mother, were all raised by their grandmother."

"What was she like? My great-grandmother, I mean."

"I don't remember her. She died when I was young. So my uncle took me in, and an aunt raised Saranim. Eligora was really the only one of us who was cared for by our mother. But by then Penemue was the Acting Clayr, so Tirelle had more time."

Prince Andromis drew his cloak tighter about his shoulders. "That's something I don't really understand. I mean, the Clayr is usually just one person, right? So how's this new definition going to work?"

Gressa chewed on her lip to think about how she would explain it. "Well," she said finally, "your father decided to name all of Tirelle's family and future descendents as the Clayr, rather than choosing one Seer. We've found out that we work best together, because we See in bits and pieces. Together we can clarify our visions, and it's convenient for us to all be in the same place so we can talk about them and figure out what we Saw. And because we have the power of the Charter, we are by far the best Seers in the Kingdom. So there's no need for the vast search it usually takes to find a new Clayr."

"It's still strange," muttered the boy. "I mean, first _Clayr_ was the title of one person, and now it means a group of people, or one person in the group…"

"It was a good decision on your father's part."

"Yeah, well, I'm glad I won't be King," said Andromis emphatically. "I see how much my father struggles, even with grandfather to help him. Farelle was always more responsible than me; she'll be a good Queen. But don't tell her I said that."

Gressa laughed. "I promise. So what is it that you want to do with your life?"

The Prince glanced over his shoulder as if worried about eavesdroppers, even though they were the only two souls sitting on the top of the glacier. "I want to become a soldier."

"Not a guard?" asked Gressa, only half-teasing him.

The boy shook his fair head. "No. Guards have to stay in the city. I want to be able to ride out on missions."

"Hmm." Gressa looked her nephew up and down. "I know your magic's good. And your riding and archery, too. But how's your swordsmanship, Andy?" She stood up and unsheathed her sword with a smile. Binder glittered in the sunlight as she placed a blunting spell along the blade. The Prince grinned and jumped to his feet, pulling out his own sword. They sparred back and forth through the powdery snow, dwarfed by the peaks of the two mountains, with the Kingdom stretching away beneath them.

Gressa's vision was suddenly taken up by the image of a large dog wreathed in fire. She blinked and found herself lying flat on her back, with her nephew kneeling beside her anxiously. "I hate it when that happens," she grumbled as she pushed herself back up. There was a perfect imprint of her figure in the snow. "I'm all right." She waved off Andromis. "Shall we go back into the glacier?"

Aunt and nephew unearthed a hidden trapdoor beneath the powder, and descended a short ladder into the icy corridors. They passed through a cavern which the Wallmakers had temporarily converted into a forge. Gressa's eyes lingered on the shining bare torso of a particularly handsome Wallmaker working an immense pair of bellows, but forced herself to carry on walking. She had to admit, living in the glacier did have its perks.

She finally came to a small dining area, which Tirelle was just leaving with her two granddaughters. "I'm taking them to see what we've built of the library," she explained. "Want to come along, Andromis?" Much as the boy professed his intense dislike of his sisters, he couldn't pass up such an opportunity. He loved books. Yes, that boy was very much his mother's son. At least he wasn't obsessed with _Kile and Aurina_.

Gressa carried on into the dining room, where Neryl and Penemue appeared to be having a serious discussion. She tossed her swordbelt, bow, and quiver into a corner and pulled a chair up to the hearth to warm her soaking feet. "So what's going on?" she asked, yanking off her boots and tossing them to the side. Her big toe poked through a hole in her sock.

Penemue glanced at Neryl. "Farelle's Sight is too weak, so she will stay at the palace," she answered. "At most she will have brief premonitions in her dreams. But Sitri is very strong in the Sight, and if she wishes, she may join you here to become a Clayr."

Gressa snorted. "How come her Sight's so strong if she was born before Mosrael did his magical thing?" She wiggled her toes to get them warm.

Neryl looked like she wanted to sigh with irritation at having to explain something so elementary. "Because her father was of Charter blood. Perhaps that, combined with Penemue's Sight, explains it."

"Oh, speaking of Sight," said Gressa, "I had a vision up on the Glacier. It was of an enormous black dog, wreathed in flames. Any idea what that means?" Her two eldest sisters shook their heads. "No problem. Just thought I'd tell you. Are the twins finished cooking supper yet? I'm starving." And with that she marched through the door into a small kitchen, stocking-clad feet quiet on the floor.

Cimeri and Berithi were chopping vegetables faster than Gressa could follow. "What's on the menu?" she asked as she rummaged through the pantry for a snack.

"Vegetable and barley soup," said Cimeri.

"And grilled salmon," added Berithi.

"With roast potatoes," declared Cimeri.

"And raspberry ice for dessert," finished Berithi.

"We've got enough ice around here as it is," murmured Gressa as she rummaged through sacks and jars of food. She triumphantly emerged with a leftover slice of gooseberry pie, and proceeded to eat it messily with her fingers.

The door banged open and Saranim shuffled in, looking determined. "Have any of you seen that jar of pickled onions?" she muttered, opening and closing cupboard doors at random. Gressa hid a smile; this was the second time that her little sister was pregnant. And Saranim looked just about ready to pop.

Cimeri and Berithi each had two daughters, and Gressa herself was a mother of three. The glacier was starting to become a large nursery, with many Wallmakers to lend a willing hand – they made the most amazing toys – but there were no sons. Gressa was quite disappointed, as she'd always wanted one. Perhaps her next child would be a little boy. That strapping Wallmaker at the bellows had looked quite nice…

"Charter, that's the taste I've been missing," Saranim sighed as she stuffed three pickled onions into her mouth. "Mmmf… I've been having lots of visions lately. It was the same when I was pregnant with Jolienna. Does the Sight always get worse when you're pregnant?"

"Yes," answered Gressa, Cimeri, and Berithi without thinking.

"I remember with my first," said Gressa. "Not three days before labour and I was knocked down by an intense vision of a man being whipped."

Saranim made a face. "Ugh," she muttered through a mouthful of pickled onion. Crunch, crunch, crunch…

Gressa did not entirely understand Saranim. For starters, the Wallmaker who had fathered her first child was the same one who fathered this one. Also, he was far too stuffy and scholarly for Gressa's taste. Tall and thin as a beanpole, not broad-shouldered and muscular like that particularly magnificent specimen who had been working the bellows. He was the type of Wallmaker who tinkered with little contraptions of cogs and wheels, not the sort of person you saw around a forge. Saranim certainly had strange taste.

"Whoa…" Cimeri blinked rapidly and staggered, just managing to catch herself on the counter.

Berithi suddenly clutched her head, and leaned against the pantry door. "I got it, too," confirmed the younger twin. "Another vision of the Wall."

"Not that damned Wall _again_," Gressa sighed. "I mean, we all understand by now – the Wall is going to be built. We don't have to keep Seeing it to know it." She heard a small cough and turned to see Neryl and Penemue in the doorway. Penemue looked amused, but Neryl hardly ever found anything funny.

"You should be glad that you are receiving those visions," said the eldest daughter of the Clayr. "They reassure us that the Wall will be completed. And really, you should not be surprised at the frequency of these images, because the Wall is such an important project."

Gressa rolled her eyes, but knew better than to be drawn into yet another argument with her oldest sister.

Dinner was a noisy affair, with Tirelle, six of her daughters, the Royal children, Master Malfas, and a few other Wallmakers. Gressa was happy to note that the handsome Wallmaker she had seen in the forge was present. Regrettably he was wearing his shirt. Her children, the children of the twins, and Saranim's eldest daughter, were all currently being cared for by some of the Wallmakers. They were far too young to attend a dinner like this. And poor Eligora was always in her room, still caught up in never-ending visions, cared for constantly by her sisters.

During the meal Penemue told them the news she brought from Belisaere: "Felio sends word that he would like some of the Clayr to come south to help with the Lesser Stones."

"What?" asked Saranim, who was well into her second helping of fish. "There is not enough Royal blood to go around?"

"The Royal family has donated enough blood to the cause," smiled Penemue. Farelle and Andromis nodded in fervent agreement.

"What about the Bright Shiners?" asked Gressa. "They can do the job too, can't they?"

"They're already doing the job," Penemue explained. "They have helped with hundreds of the Stones. And besides, who will tell a Bright Shiner what to do? You, Gressa?"

Gressa stuck out her tongue, and was gratified when her nephew and nieces giggled.

"Very mature, Gressa," said Tirelle, but she was smiling.

"We'll go," piped up the twins.

"But we have our conditions," said Cimeri, shaking her finger.

"Full room and board at the palace," Berithi elaborated.

"Agreed," said Penemue. "Now I have some more news, and this concerns everyone." Malfas and his Wallmakers lowered their forks to pay close attention. "Felio has finally come up with a working truth-spell. It does not force people to tell the truth, but it turns someone's face bright yellow whenever they lie."

The company at the table burst into laughter. "What?" asked Tirelle. "Who came up with _that_ particular effect?"

"I suspect Nehima," said Master Malfas. "That woman has an odd sense of humour, and Felio is wrapped around her little finger."

"In any case, it's about time," said Saranim, hardly glancing up from her third bowl of raspberry ice.

Penemue nodded. "Dantalion is very pleased. He had quite enough torture when we were fighting the Freemen. And old King Berillan approves, of course."

Gressa grinned and looked around the table. "Let's try it out _right now_," she suggested. "I vote for Prince Andromis!" She nudged the boy sitting beside her, who shot her a mock glare.

Chairs were pushed back and everyone stood up. The interested Wallmakers gathered close around, and Gressa made sure that she was situated near the handsome forger. Penemue handed Malfas a piece of parchment, and he read the Charter marks. "It seems simple enough," he remarked, and carefully cast the truth-spell over the young prince.

"Now say something!" Cimeri and Berithi cried in unison.

"Yes, say something completely crazy," urged Gressa.

Prince Andromis glanced at his older sister, and a wicked smile spread over his face. "Farelle has a crush on Lord Cassiel Abhorsen."

His face did not turn yellow.

The Princess sprang forward with a very un-royal shriek, and proceeded to chase her brother around the table. Penemue sighed fondly, and crossed her arms. "Ever since he carried her out of the reservoir…"

_A/N: Ah, young teenage crushes; who hasn't had them? For the next chapter, we'll skip forward three more years. I need to wrap this story up before it extends into the length of an epic, so forgive me for jumping through time like this. Only five more chapters to go!_


	33. The Book of the Dead

_A/N: I am a liar. I claimed that we'd be done in five chapters, but that number has somehow escalated. The flow of the story became a factor; I need to get through a lot of years, and I want to cover all the important stuff without making it too episodic. So this story will be 43 chapters now instead of 37 – scream or cheer, pick the reaction of your choice. And I'm not promising that it will stay at 43, because look what happened last time! I was _so sure_ that I'd stop at 37!_

_On a different note, this story has passed the 4000 hit mark! Thank you, everyone!_

**The Book of the Dead**

Cassiel sheathed his sword and stepped towards the frightened-looking group of people huddled around their wagons in the chilly spring air. The Dead had taken to attacking travellers along this particular stretch of road at night, a misfortune because it was a common trading route. He smiled as he approached the people, and thus was completely surprised when they recoiled in fear.

The young man raised his arms in a calming gesture of goodwill, but the people reacted badly.

"He's casting a spell!" one of the women shrieked. "Necromancer! He's a necromancer!"

Before Cassiel knew it he had been grabbed by at least four pairs of hands, and a knife was tickling his throat. These harmless-looking merchants sure moved fast.

The rather ugly man holding the knife snarled into his face. "Say goodbye, you filthy necromancer," he spat.

"Wait!" Cassiel cried out, not wanting to cast any real magic and further frighten these people. "Check my Charter mark! I mean you no harm."

The merchants peered at him suspiciously in the light of their lanterns. Finally, a wrinkle-faced woman extended a claw-like finger, and touched his forehead. After a moment, she frowned and stepped back. "He bears an untainted Charter mark," she confirmed, looking sour as though disappointed that it was so.

The young man was released, and he tugged his surcoat back into place.

"I suppose we must thank you, then," the leader of the merchants said grudgingly. "What is your name, lad?"

"Cassiel," the young man said, expecting instant recognition and contrition. But the merchants merely stared at him with blank expressions. "Do you not know me?" he tried again. Still more blank looks. "You know – Cassiel _Abhorsen_?"

Expressions of dawning spread over the merchants' faces.

"Ah, Abhorsen!"

"_He_ is the Abhorsen now?"

"I recognize the sword and the bells!"

"Yes, Abhorsen's bells."

Cassiel noted that his family name seemed to be fast becoming a title – _his_ title. He couldn't believe it; five years of doing his father's job and he still wasn't recognized by half the Kingdom. Incredible. It just meant that he would need to use his full name when introducing himself. Or maybe only his last name. He was still Lord Abhorsen, after all.

Since taking over the family business, Cassiel's chief duty was now to keep down the Dead. Necromantic activity was increasing even as the number of Free Magic creatures waned. Most of them had been banished to the precincts of Death, and only resurfaced if summoned by a Free Magic sorcerer. No, the necromancers and their Dead servants were Cassiel's chief worry now.

And it wasn't all work. Cassiel was preoccupied with his small family, specifically Lessandra his lovely wife, and their two fine boys. Five-year-old Vichael had already gone into Death, and Cassiel had once found him playing with his bell-bandolier. Dangerous as it was, it was a good sign that the bloodline would continue, just as his father had wanted it to.

After a mostly-friendly farewell to the merchants, Cassiel set off through the forest. As he walked towards the shore of the river, the young man dug through his belt-pouch. He finally pulled out a square of beaten silver the size of his palm, and breathed on it. The fog swirled idly for about a minute before clearing, and it wasn't his own face that he saw reflected on the surface.

"Lord Cassiel," said the woman. "I was hoping you'd get in touch."

"Sorry I couldn't speak to you sooner. What is it you wanted to tell me, Lady Neryl?" asked Cassiel.

The Voice of the Clayr had one of these squares of frosted silver, as did he, Ghidreth the Wallmaker, and Prince Dantalion. It was an easy way to keep in touch, and had been ingeniously designed by the Wallmaker herself. That woman was clever, even in her old age.

"I have two pieces of important news," said Neryl, her echoing voice making it sound as if she was speaking from the bottom of a well. "The first is that the Wallmakers have completed the Lesser Stones."

"Excellent," Cassiel grinned. "So I won't need to donate any more blood?"

The Clayr gave a small smile. "No, thank goodness. Ghidreth told me that the Wallmakers much preferred working with members of the Bloodlines rather than the Bright Shiners."

"How so?" asked the young man.

Neryl gave a small shrug. "Whenever Wallmakers connected with Ranna to make a Lesser Stone, they fell into a deep sleep."

"And the others?" prompted Cassiel.

"Belgaer caused the Wallmakers to have vivid dreams, Astarael made people weak to the point of death, and Kibeth made them inordinately energetic. These symptoms would last for days."

"Must have been interesting," Cassiel grunted. He was picturing a whole roomful of rowdy Wallmakers, unable to keep their feet still after having connected with Kibeth. "That Astarael, though, she's a funny one. I think she has taken up residence under my House, but I cannot be sure."

The woman's forehead crinkled in concern. "I do not See any cause for you to worry," she replied slowly. "Best just not to disturb her." She bit her lip, then carried on. "My second bit of news is grave, I fear. The King… he will die this summer."

Cassiel was rocked by the news. Berillan had always been a strong, quiet presence, as constant as the sea. Always there when you needed him, always with steady words of encouragement. "How – how will he die?" Cassiel asked when he had regained his composure.

"Peacefully," answered Neryl. "Right now he is enjoying his retirement in a villa on Mount Aunden. He indulges in bird watching and the study of ancient texts. He will die in his bed."

Cassiel let out a breath, and leaned against a tree. The rough bark against his back kept him from completely losing his concentration. "At least Dantalion has been doing the duties of a King for a decade," he remarked. "That Bloodline will continue, thank the Charter. Does he know?"

"The Clayr all know," admitted Neryl. "We Saw it together, but we decided not to tell the Royal Family. I just wanted to warn you in advance."

Cassiel nodded, but said nothing. He actually longed to tell the Seer about some disturbing feelings he'd been having, but could not quite bring himself to do it. After an awkward silence he cast about for another subject. "Vichael is doing quite well in his training," he said. "At least he finds it interesting. I hope it always remains so for him..."

His voice trailed off and he hesitated once again. The Clayr seemed to understand that he wished to say something, and waited patiently, until at last the thoughts that had been haunting him for months burst out in a torrent: "You know, Neryl, sometimes I feel like I'm on some sort of predetermined track. It's a feeling of fate, of inevitability. I did not choose this way of life, you see. It was chosen for me, because of my blood!"

The Seer gave him a look of sympathy. "Fate is a funny word to use," she said. "My sisters and I normally See possible futures, as many possible outcomes hinge on various decisions through time. But there is something I have noticed, Cassiel. I have found that your future, just as your father's was before you, is curiously inflexible. You both were chosen to walk this path, and so will your descendents."

Cassiel was not sure if that bit of information comforted him or not, but nevertheless he thanked Neryl, and watched her image fade before pocketing the square of silver. He headed back to his House in pensive silence. It was good to know that he was not just being paranoid, but it was also strange to have it acknowledged that he had less control over his own life than the average person.

It was late, so Cassiel was surprised to see a glow of magic emanating from the Great Hall. With only a brief word of greeting to the sending that took his cloak, he entered to see his wife, who was amusing their one-year-old by conjuring balls of multicoloured light. Little Turiel giggled and reached out with a chubby hand to grab a glowing blue sphere, but his fingers passed right through it. He scrunched his brow and tried again.

Lessandra, sensing Cassiel's presence, glanced up. Her brown hair was tangled and there were dark circles under her eyes, but on her better days Cassiel thought her the most beautiful woman in the world. "You shouldn't have waited up for me," said the young Lord after he had given her a kiss.

"I didn't," the woman smiled. She shifted Turiel in her arms. "_Someone _decided to wake up crying." Vichael had been an amazingly even-tempered baby, but Turiel had made it a sort of habit to wake up and bawl at least once during the night. After nearly a year of this, Cassiel and Lessandra had realized that the best way to calm down the baby was to distract him with magic. As an Apprentice Wallmaker, Lessandra had picked up all sorts of useless illusory spells. Of course, before she could become a fully-qualified Wallmaker she had run off with him; she had been nineteen, and he had been twenty. Now she used her vast knowledge of Charter Marks in her work as a scholar.

"I spoke with Neryl," said Cassiel as he idly played with a strand of his wife's hair. "I told her about… about what I'd been feeling recently."

The ex-Wallmaker glanced up at him before Turiel demanded more of her attention. "What did she say?"

"She said that when it comes to me, my future is inflexible. Apparently it was the same for my father. She said – what were the words? She said that we had been chosen to walk our path, and our descendents will be, too." They both glanced down at Turiel, whose eyelids were starting to get heavy.

Lessandra gave an uneasy smile. "So she basically said that you did not choose your path, but the path chose you?"

"Something like that."

"Well," said the woman as she got to her feet, cradling the softly-snoring infant, "that sounds like the type of thing you should put in that book of yours. Our children have a right to know, and so will their children."

Ah, yes. The book that Cassiel had promised his father to finish. He was hardly the academic type, but he had struck gold in marrying Lessandra who, amongst her many talents, used much of her time writing up volumes of Charter Marks. Like most Wallmakers she was almost obsessive in her work. One of Cassiel's favourite memories of Lessandra was watching her sit in her workshop while heavily pregnant with Vichael, her quill flying over the parchment, and her intense look of concentration spoilt by the ink smudged on her cheek.

As Lessandra went to put Turiel to bed Cassiel hastened up to his study, taking the steps two at a time.

The young man closed the door and sat down at the massive desk. It had been gifted to his father by King Berillan, and was a glorious thing carved with twining dragons. Lying on the polished surface was a book bound in pale green leather, with silver clasps holding spells for opening and closing. Those spells had been performed by Master Wallmaker Iva, the very Wallmaker who had bespelled Penemue's special copy of _Kile and Aurina_.

Cassiel opened the book with great care, flipping through the sheets lined with spidery text. His father had written most of it, and Cassiel had completed the final few chapters with Lessandra's help. It was a curious book, and had a knack for opening to the correct pages whenever something needed to be added. Those pages were wreathed in spells, some of Charter Marks and others of Free Magic runes. Even the son of Gabriel Abhorsen could not suppress a shiver as his fingers brushed over the parchment.

Cassiel reached the last page in the book, and stared down at the blank white sheet before him. The words of Neryl and Lessandra were ringing in his ears. He dipped a quill pen carefully into the inkwell, thought for a moment, and began to write.

Finished, he put the quill down and surveyed his handiwork. He was quite proud of it. There, all alone on the final page of _The Book of the Dead_, was the line: "_Does the walker choose the path, or the path the walker?_"

_A/N: A comment Drop Your Oboe made quite some time ago reminded me of the caves and tunnels under Abhorsen's House, so thanks for that! Yes, Astarael has moved in. Be very afraid…_

_I compare being a Wallmaker to being a musical genius – it is rare and can surface in anybody, but can also run in families. I decided to make Lessandra an ex-Apprentice Wallmaker to explain how Sameth was born with the abilities of a Wallmaker. Lessandra would have become a Wallmaker if she hadn't married Cassiel, so perhaps Lessandra's talents remained dormant in the line of Abhorsens and decided to resurface in Sameth some 2000 years later. I also liked the idea of her being a working mother – working at home, of course. Imagine having to cross those stepping stones every day!_

_Right, so now I've just got to go write ten more chapters..._


	34. The Clayr's Glacier

_A/N: Here we are, Lady! The Clayr's Glacier, as promised!_

_Thanks for Pied Flycatcher for pointing out the typos!_

_To anonymous reviewer _Olaf the Stout_: Thanks for reviewing! Glad you like the story. Your suggestion of the dungeons is an interesting one. In fact, I might prefer it to school. ("But professor, I couldn't show up at the exam because a Prince locked me up in a dungeon and forced me to write fanfiction!") If I ever found myself in a dungeon, I probably _would_ distract myself with writing fanfiction… _

_I really don't know what to say about leaving this chapter so long. Er… sorry? For the past couple of weeks I had midterms, and I've also been having some trouble writing due to lack of inspiration. But I'm back now, and I hope the updates will be more frequent. Anyway, thanks so much for returning to this story._

**The Clayr's Glacier**

Neryl lowered the square of silver. Even now she wondered whether telling Cassiel of the King's impending death had been the right thing to do. What with all she Saw, she didn't know what to share, and with whom. The Sight could be a heavy burden.

The Voice of the Clayr glanced across the room, where her mother was directing a team of Wallmakers in polishing a large surface of ice. This cavern, the very one where Mosrael had given them his power, was to become the Observatory. Tirelle and her daughters had developed a spell to project their visions onto reflective surfaces. This was incredibly valuable, as living in a glacier provided all kinds of reflective surfaces. With this Observatory, any of the Clayr could enlarge their own visions for somebody else to see through a pane of spelled ice. In the very least, it would beat trying to explain their visions to others.

Master Malfas made a joke while perched on a ladder, and silver-haired Tirelle glanced, laughing, over her shoulder. This was one of the few times Neryl's mother had laughed since foreseeing the King's death. Her Sight was comparatively weak and unpredictable, but Berillan was a dear friend of Tirelle's, and she had taken to distracting herself with work. The Wallmakers were nearly finished building the Clayr's Glacier, and many rooms would be empty until there were enough Clayr to fill them. Only Tirelle knew all of the secrets and hidden rooms in the Glacier.

It was getting late. Neryl turned and left the chamber. She was immediately stopped by a barricade consisting of a crossed axe and sword.

"Halt!" a voice rang out.

"Who goes there?" another voice added.

Neryl frowned in annoyance. The doorway was flanked by Cimeri and Berithi, each bearing one of the afore-mentioned weapons. The twins had been given their Charter-spelled weapon of choice, and earning the nicknames "Axe-Guard" and "Sword-Guard". They had taken their duties to heart. Thankfully, all subsequent injuries had been minor.

"Come on, you two," sighed Neryl. "You knew that it was me."

The twins exchanged looks of exaggerated incredulity beneath their open helms, lowering their shields. "You could have been anybody!" Cimeri protested, waving her axe with heedless abandon, and lopping off the tips of several icicles.

"Yes!" Berithi rejoined, brandishing her glowing sword and nearly blinding Neryl. "Like an ice grub."

Even Neryl, powerful Seer that she was, did a double-take at that one. "An ice grub?" she repeated, praying that she had misunderstood.

"Yes! A small –"

"– thin –"

"– two-legged –"

"– blonde-haired –"

"– ice grub!"

Neryl merely shook her head, half from exasperation and half from trying to recover from the rapid-fire duet delivery. No matter how old her twin sisters would grow to be, it seemed that they would never lose their strange senses of humour.

She carried on down an icy corridor and nearly bumped into Gressa. "Watch where you're going you flat-footed frog-face–!" Neryl's sister cut off in mid-tirade when she saw who it was.

"Do you always greet everyone like this?" asked the elder sister, inwardly marvelling at Gressa's creativity.

The Ranger groaned. "Don't lecture me, Neryl, please." She pulled on a leather arm-brace with more force than necessary. "I need to go out and patrol the Glacier." She adjusted Binder which was sheathed at her side, and picked up her bow and a full quiver.

"Watch out for ice grubs," Neryl called after her sister's retreating back.

Gressa whirled around, braided hair striking the corridor walls. "I can take care of myself!"

"I know," soothed the Voice of the Clayr, raising her hands. "Just – be careful."

The Ranger raised her eyes to the roof in annoyance. "I know, I know."

Neryl watched her sister leave, and carried on. The threat of the drill grubs was a real one, although she would never completely admit that to the twins. The Wallmakers had placed impenetrable wards in the ice around the Clayr's living areas, but it was still dangerous to be out of the Glacier alone. The enormous grubs were notoriously slow to react, and their numerous rotating jaws crushed everything in their way.

She had reached a wooden door, and paused outside, placing an ear to listen. However, the Charter-spelled wood did its job well, and not a sound could be heard. With a chuckle, Neryl pulled the door open.

Pandemonium. Clothing was strewn over six beds, and girls in various states of dress and undress were dashing about, yelling at the top of their lungs. Neryl surveyed the scene fondly, then looked with pity on her sister Saranim, who was looking very hassled as she tried to button a girl into a frilly nightgown only to have it ripped off again. The Voice of the Clayr took a step into the room and slammed the door. Loudly.

Six small faces turned towards her, and soon Neryl had staggered against the door with the force of their attack. "Auntie Neryl!" they chorused, seemingly determined to squeeze the breath from her body.

"Hello there," panted Saranim as she pried the girls away from their beloved aunt. "Nice of you to show up. I need to get this lot tucked into bed."

That task was easier said and done, and by the time faces had been washed and hair brushed, and toys had been sorted out, and the six girls had been dressed in their nightgowns and tucked into bed with hugs and kisses, both women were absolutely exhausted.

"Tell us a story!" shouted Isodell, Gressa's oldest, who was just as obstinate as her mother.

The cry was taken up by the five other girls, and Neryl just noticed Saranim inching out of the door in time to prevent her from deserting her. "Trust me," said the Guardian of the Young in an undertone. Neryl hesitated before nodding, and her sister whipped out of the room. She returned a second later with a bewildered-looking Wallmaker in tow. "Hush now, girls!" she carolled. "Everad here will tell you all a story." And before the poor Wallmaker could protest, Saranim had pulled Neryl outside and shut the door behind them. "There," she said with immense satisfaction, dusting off her hands with the air of a job well done.

"Poor Everad," noted Neryl as the two sisters walked down the hall together. They paused outside another door, and Saranim peeked inside. Over her sister's head, Neryl glimpsed the peaceful faces of more slumbering girls. Tirelle's granddaughters slept in two dormitories. The six oldest girls were currently being entertained by Everad, and the six youngest were thankfully asleep. The very youngest was Gressa's baby, being cared for by a helpful flock of female Wallmakers.

"That Isodell," sighed Saranim as she closed the door. "She's quite spirited, isn't she?"

"Awfully impudent for an eight-year-old," agreed Neryl. "She, Maidi, and Lareth make quite the trio." Maidi and Lareth were daughters of the twins Cimeri and Berithi, born within a week of each other. The twins' younger daughters had also been born at nearly the same time, a phenomenon that puzzled the other sisters to no end. In any case, Isodell, Maidi, and Lareth were the eldest of the Clayr brats, and the ringleaders in any mischief that occurred.

"Those three!" Saranim exclaimed in what could have been taken for affection or loathing. Neryl suspected a mixture of both. "After Everad's done telling his story, they'll be sneaking out of the room for a snack."

"I know," said Neryl. "I'll take care of it."

The Guardian of the Young let out an undignified snort. "I think they're my least-favourite nieces."

The Voice of the Clayr knew better than to take her sister seriously. Saranim had a kind heart and loved all of the children at the Glacier, not just her own.

They mounted the steps to one of the towers, and Saranim knocked gently before entering. The Wallmaker on duty jumped to her feet when they came in.

"Has there been any change?" Neryl asked her.

The Wallmaker shook her head sadly. "None." With a nod, Neryl dismissed the woman, and she and Saranim took the chairs at the side of the bed.

They looked down on the face of Eligora. She was the most powerful of all the sisters, but all that she Saw was vision, not present. Kept in a room by herself, her mother, sisters, and the Wallmakers took care of her. Neryl watched her youngest sister's eyelids flutter, before turning to Saranim.

"They're nearly done the Observatory."

"That's good to hear," said the Guardian of the Young, stretching her arms. "Soon the Glacier will be complete, and then the Wallmakers will leave. That should happen a month ago."

"A month ago?" Neryl repeated. "But they're still working on the Observatory."

"Oh – I mean I Saw them leaving a month ago," Saranim corrected herself.

"So when will they actually leave?"

"In about two months."

"Two months from now, or two months from a month ago?"

"Two months from a month – ah. They will be leaving about one month from now."

"Right…" Neryl gave her sister a strange look, noting that her family really did have a tendency to get their whens mixed up.

"It's a shame, really," Saranim continued. "I was getting quite used to having the Wallmakers around."

"It will be strange," Neryl agreed, "living in this enormous place with only a few of us."

"But you're the Voice of the Clayr," said Saranim. "At least you'll get to go travelling about the Kingdom making our visions known to the Kingdom. The Guardian of the Young practically lives in the dormitories."

"Better than the twins," said Neryl. She couldn't imagine standing by a doorway all day wearing heavy mail and carrying weapons and shield. But then, she had a sneaking suspicion that Cimeri and Berithi enjoyed these duties, and between them would come up with many ways to pass the time.

"And then they'll go and work on the Wall," Saranim was musing, looking at Eligora but not really seeing her. "There will be some trouble there. Not everyone agrees with the building of the Wall. When did Ghidreth say it will be finished?"

"In about ten years," Neryl answered automatically. "King Berillan will not see it complete. I wish that he would."

"Neither will mother." Saranim's eyes suddenly widened. "Does she know?"

"She knows," answered the Voice of the Clayr. "She's a Seer, and all Seers can See their death. A lot of people who aren't Seers get visions of their death."

The younger sister bit her bottom lip. "It's just so silly. I mean, someone as strong as mother succumbing to pneumonia, and this winter too…"

"It won't be the same without her," Neryl agreed. "The Sight is sometimes a burden." She got up, and placed her hand briefly on Eligora's cool brow before leaving the room. Saranim would stay with her, before being relieved by someone else in a few hours.

Neryl took a detour from her usual route, opting to follow the corridor near the dormitories. The instant she passed by one of the doors, it opened a crack.

Neryl turned to look straight into a pair of green eyes, and said, "Don't even think about it." There were three frightened squeals, and the door slammed shut.

Satisfied that Isodell, Maidi, and Lareth would not be sneaking off to the kitchens that evening, Neryl continued on her way. She grinned, reflecting that it must be difficult to break rules in a family of Seers.

_A/N: Thanks for reading! After leaving this story for so long I wonder if anyone is sticking with it. I'd love to hear from you! To make it up, I'll try to post the next chapter early (which means, in less than a week's time). Until then, hang in there._


	35. Palace Tales

_A/N: Thanks so much everybody for sticking with this. Here's the next chapter, early as promised. I must say, it's great to be getting back into this story! I think I missed my characters. Well, Dantalion has been ruling on his own now for a couple of years. What could possibly go wrong?_

**Palace Tales**

"Where are you going?"

King Dantalion paused with his hand on the doorknob with an air similar to that of a startled rabbit. Penemue very nearly smiled at the image, but kept her expression reproachful. "I have a meeting," her husband mumbled, avoiding eye contact.

Penemue put her hands on her hips. "At this hour? What could possibly require your attention now?"

Dantalion's hand dropped from the doorknob. The King was apparently resigning himself to the fact that he had been caught sneaking out of his own bedroom by his wife. "Our ambassador in Ancelstierre just sent a letter," he explained. "It seems that Sir Tralusan is planning to run for Chief Minister."

"And why is that so remarkable?" asked the Queen as she furiously tried to remember who that man was. The name sounded familiar…

"If he wins, it will take the running of Ancelstierre out of the Royal Line. And my Council thinks that it will weaken ties between the two countries. He's Anti-Wall, for one thing. A lot of people are – you've seen the petitions. And the very last thing we need right now is a war between us."

Penemue finally remembered where she had heard the name before. "But isn't he your distant cousin? He should be faithful to you."

"He is related only by marriage. My uncle, Prince Orrofin, was Chief Minister for life. Orrofin's daughter is filling in only temporarily. Tralusan is his nephew, and has little allegiance towards the Crown."

"I will speak to my sisters and find out if they Saw anything," said Penemue. "Should I come with you to this meeting?"

"No." Dantalion placed his hands gently on her shoulders. "You have had a busy day. I want you to lie in bed, read your books, and promise not to arise for any state business. You need to relax."

"I promise," she grinned. After a quick kiss, Dantalion hurried out of the room to attend his meeting. Even if the Kingdom wasn't troubled by necromancers and demons, it seemed that politics would always arise to keep them on their toes.

Penemue snuggled down into the soft mattress of the four-poster, looking forward to an evening of undisturbed peace. She had her beloved copy of _Kile and Aurina_, the warming-pans placed at the foot of the bed were keeping her toes nice and toasty, and a large mug of tea sat on the endtable. She gave a contented sigh as she opened the book to the scene where Kile firsts asks Aurina to dance…

Before she had finished the first paragraph a tentative knock sounded on her door. Penemue briefly considered ignoring the person and pretending to be asleep, but then decided that wasn't a very queenly thing to do. "Come in," she called, marking the page.

Her son poked his head around the door, taking a quick look around before entering. "Hi, mother," he muttered, closing the door behind him. At nineteen, Andromis was just losing the gangly awkwardness that had plagued his years of adolescence. He was a head taller than his mother, something she was almost painfully aware of as he came to sit beside her on the bed. "Where's father?" he asked, grey eyes darting to and fro.

"He is staying up late to finish some work with the Council," said Penemue, shifting over to give him more room. "What is it, Andy?"

The Prince of the Kingdom avoided her gaze. He wasn't very good at disguising emotions, although he could conceal his boredom very well when occasion required, such as during dances and festivals. No, right now Andromis looked almost nervous. Penemue tossed her book onto Dantalion's empty pillow, deciding that she had some serious maternal duties to attend to.

"I'm just…" Penemue's son shook his head, running a hand distractedly through his blond hair in a way that reminded her eerily of Dantalion. "I'm just nervous about tomorrow, all right?" said the Prince, gesturing helplessly with his hands.

The Queen's mind was working overtime, and then something clicked. "The trials!" she exclaimed, seizing upon her son's source of disquiet. "Oh, I know that you will do just fine, Andy. You were always so good at sports and riding and weaponry. And there isn't a better tracker under the palace roof. It will be all right."

"It's not that part," the boy sighed. "Applicants also have to write an academic exam. I was never a really good student, mother. I've tried studying all day, and nothing will stick. All that memorization of names and dates and formulae and theories…"

"All you need is a passing grade," Penemue assured him. "You have never failed your lessons. And before you know it, you will be off to one of the Regimental Outposts to train as an officer."

"Yes, and then what?" asked Andromis mournfully. "Two years of service before I can even _think_ about applying for Lieutenantship, and everybody knows how difficult _that_ exam is – barely anyone passes the first time, and you are only allowed to take it once a year! I'll probably remain at the outpost until I'm old and grey…"

Penemue smiled. "Now what kind of talk is that?" she chided gently. "You will just keep taking the exam until you pass, never mind how long it takes. Besides, if your father could pass that exam then I am certain you can."

Andromis grinned, and Penemue resisted the urge to enfold her son in her arms; he would probably hate being coddled. "Which Regiment were you thinking of joining?" she asked conversationally.

Before Andromis could reply, somebody knocked on the door.

"Who is it?" Penemue called.

"It's Sitri, mother," a voice answered.

The Prince jumped to his feet. "_Sitri?_" he hissed, looking wildly around the room. "She can't know that I came in here! I'd never hear the end of her teasing!" Without further ado he dove underneath the bed. His feet disappeared just as the door opened and the youngest child entered the Royal Bedchamber.

In appearance, Sitri reminded Penemue of her mother Tirelle. In manner, the Princess had many little quirks. She always wore a black waistcoat, even going so far as to belt it over her evening dresses. Penemue disapproved of this un-royal behaviour, ignoring her daughter's protests that a _silk_ waistcoat was appropriate for dinnerwear. The Queen knew that Sitri loved the waistcoat because of its enormous pockets, fit for carrying around books, pens, and paper.

Sitri cocked her blond head to the side like a bird's, seeming to sense something amiss. But before she could ask any questions, Penemue spoke. "What is it?"

"I just finished packing," the girl said in a whisper. Her normally-bright eyes looked distracted. Penemue reached out, and Sitri gratefully ran across the room and jumped onto the bed to embrace her. The mattress bounced and the Queen thought she heard a muffled grunt from beneath the bed, but her attention was diverted to Sitri. She stroked her daughter's hair as she tried to hold back her own tears. Now that she was fifteen, Sitri was going to join her aunts and cousins at the Clayr's Glacier.

"You won't be too far away," soothed Penemue. "And you will be with family."

"I know," said Sitri, her voice muffled against Penemue's neck. "I have gone to the Glacier before, but… it's not Belisaere. It's not home."

"If you do not wish to go, you do not have to."

"No, I should," said Sitri miserably. "My visions – they're coming more frequently now. Living at the Palace like that is hard, and my aunts can help me with this."

Suddenly remembering the silver mirrors, Penemue smiled. "Let me tell you about something." She held her daughter at arm's length. "The Wallmaker crafted something that would allow different people to speak to each other, even if they were far away." Sitri's blue eyes lighted up with interest. "The Wallmaker has one, and so do Lord Abhorsen and your father. And your Aunt Neryl has one. If you ever want to speak with any of us, just ask her about it."

The girl smiled and nodded. "Okay."

"Now," said the Queen in a mock-serious tone, "where were you all day? No, let me guess – you hid yourself in a tree to read? Again?"

Sitri nodded sheepishly. "I may have put a concealment spell around it. Sorry if I caused any trouble."

Penemue sighed. Her youngest was an extraordinarily talented Charter Mage and tree-climber, something that made her nigh impossible to find if she wished not to be disturbed. It also caused widespread panic among the guard whenever the young princess went "missing".

The girl opened her mouth, no doubt to say something in the way of an explanation, but she paused when a loud knocking sounded at the door.

"Mother?" an urgent voice called from the hall. It was Farelle.

"By the Charter!" Sitri murmured. Penemue was too surprised at the interruption to reprimand her daughter's language. She wondered who would come knocking on her door next – Dantalion, perhaps? So much for an evening of relaxation.

Sitri scrambled to her feet, dancing up and down in panic. "I need to hide!" She made to slither underneath the bed, but Penemue caught her by the arm.

"Not under there, Sitri!" she cautioned, remembering Andromis, and ushered her over to the closet. Slamming the door behind her, she called out, "Come in!"

The door banged open and Princess Farelle swept inside. Her hair was tousled, her shawl was skewed, and her face was red – she had been crying. "Farelle!" Penemue exclaimed, taking a step towards her firstborn. "What ever is the matter?"

In answer, the young woman burst into tears. A confused Penemue held her tight as Farelle sobbed her heart out onto her shoulder. "He doesn't _like_ me," the Princess wailed. Ah. That explained it.

Deciding not to ask any questions, Penemue continued to comfort her daughter. Over Farelle's shoulder she spotted her son emerging from under the bed. He winked, put a finger to his lips, and began to crawl stealthily across the room, making for the door. Farelle suddenly pulled away and turned to wipe her eyes, and Andromis just managed to whip out of sight behind a chair, landing with a muffled thump that luckily escaped his sister's notice.

"Farelle," said Penemue as naturally as she could. "Why don't you go and wash your face? Then we can talk about it." The Princess nodded and shuffled off to the bathroom.

As soon as she was gone, Andromis scrambled to his feet. "Thanks, mum," he whispered as he darted to the door, slid it open, and ducked outside with a quick wave. The Queen leaned against the wall and heaved a sigh of relief – that had been much too close!

Deciding that she should take advantage of Farelle's absence, Penemue let her third child out of the closet. Sitri's fair head suddenly jerked around, and they both stared with barely-concealed horror at the handle of the bathroom door – which was turning. Penemue knew that they had only seconds before Farelle emerged, and that Sitri wouldn't have enough time to make it across the room and out the door. But before she could even think of what to do, her youngest child had bounded behind the curtain with surprising agility.

Farelle emerged from the bathroom looking much better, although her eyes were still red. She sniffed slightly before coming to sit with her mother on the bed.

"All right," said Penemue, comforting someone for the third time in thirty minutes. "Who is this person who supposedly does not like you?"

"Javen," whispered the Princess. A small sound of surprise came from the direction of the window, but Penemue covered it with a feigned coughing fit.

"And who is Javen?" she prompted once she could speak again.

"He's the new member of the Royal Guard," explained Farelle, looking as if her pet bird had just died.

"The – the _Royal Guard_?" Penemue repeated incredulously. "Could you not have chosen anyone else? Like perhaps a bandit? Your father would have been so much happier."

Farelle rolled her eyes. "I know, mother. I know. But you never have control over who you fall in love with."

Another small gasp came from the curtain and Penemue faked a few more coughs, cursing Sitri's lack of discretion.

"Are you all right, mother?" asked Farelle in concern, arising out of her melancholy for a moment.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," said the Queen waving her off. "So, it really is love, then?"

"It cannot be anything else." Farelle sighed, and her eyes took on a misty look. "He's so much nicer than all the other young men. I hate it when those noble families introduce me to their eligible sons, as if they were putting them up for sale. And those boys are always so boring anyway. They never talk to me about anything interesting – they only talk about themselves. Or their parents talk about them and they don't utter a single word, let alone an intelligent one."

"And Javen converses with you?"

"Oh yes. That is, he never says anything inappropriate. We just chat sometimes whenever I pass his post. Did you know that he likes to dance, too? And that he can play three instruments?"

Penemue knew that her daughter loved music. "I'm sorry Farelle, but I did not even know he existed until you told me about him. But he does sound like a nice fellow."

"Yes." The smile suddenly faded from the young woman's face. "Except… only a moment ago I asked him if he would like to walk with me in the gardens – just to talk, you know. But he turned suddenly cold and declined." Tears gathered in Farelle's eyes once more, which shocked Penemue because her eldest daughter almost never cried, and certainly not twice in one day. "He probably thinks I'm just some – some – some silly shameless girl!" she wailed.

"Nobody who knows you would think that of you," said Penemue, embracing her daughter again and wondering where her children got these ridiculous ideas. "You are a real Lady, and the Crown Princess. And the Kingdom could not ask for a better one."

"So why did he say no?" demanded Farelle, wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her nightgown.

The Queen shrugged. "He was on duty, so he could not walk with you even if he wanted to. Besides, he was probably scared to death of your father, and what the King would do to him if he presumed to take a walk with you."

The Princess let out a choked laugh. "Father can be… overprotective."

"That is the diplomatic way of putting it," Penemue observed. "He wants the best for you, Farelle. I am sure a Royal Guard is not what he had in mind. At best this Javen is the second son of a Lord, and at worst he is the bastard son of a minor noble. There are many young men of higher noble blood available."

"But I choose Javen, if he will have me," Farelle proclaimed, setting her jaw.

"Take your time," cautioned Penemue. "You are only twenty-one. And besides, who knows how long it will take to convince your father?" They shared a smile.

Farelle suddenly shivered, pulling her shawl tightly about her arms. "Do you feel that? It's so cold in here!" She got up, and approached the window where Sitri was hiding. Penemue leapt to her feet, but before she could interfere Farelle had drawn aside the velvet curtain.

"And no wonder," said the Princess with a small laugh. "The window is wide open." Penemue stared at the window, through which a chilly breeze was issuing. Apparently Sitri had found a path of escape other than the door. Farelle closed the window against the cold night air, and smiled. "Thank you," she said, and kissed her mother before leaving the room.

When she was gone, Penemue fell back onto her bed, spreading her arms and letting out a heavy sigh. She didn't care what Dantalion said; the duty of being a mother to three children was far more challenging than the duty of running a Kingdom.

_A/N: The physical actions of this scene were inspired by the movie "The Pink Panther" (That's the original version with Peter Sellers and David Niven). There's a sequence in a hotel room where Inspector Clouseau's wife is trying to keep her husband, her lover, and her lover's nephew hidden from each other._

_Reviews will be read, replied to, and cherished! I'll try to have the next chapter up in a week._


	36. Trowels and Mortar

_A/N: I've made some changes to chapter 3 which don't affect the storyline, but clarify some details of history between the Old Kingdom and Ancelstierre. If you don't feel like looking back, I will summarise: a Civil War took place during the rule of Berillan's father, during which Ancelstierre was founded as a country independent from the Old Kingdom. So far the Chief Minister has been a member of the Royal Family (like Berillan's brother Prince Orrofin), which kept Ancelstierre strongly allied to the Kingdom._

_As you can tell by the title, this chapter features our Wallmakers. Enjoy!_

**Trowels and Mortar**

It was a very hot, very dry day. Flies were buzzing about in little clouds, and small dust-devils whirled over the stretch of bare trodden dirt that bordered the Wall. That dirt was churned up to ankle-deep mud during the winter, but during the longest days of summer that seemed almost preferable. There was very little breeze stirring the air, and Wallmakers went about bare-backed or in their shirt-sleeves, hair sticking to their foreheads with sweat as they laboured under the unforgiving sun.

Nehima flung her braid over her shoulder as she supervised the work of her team of Wallmakers. Under a tattered sheet lashed between two trees, some of the younger Wallmakers were making mortar out of water and ground lime, mixing it into a smooth thick paste. Still others were shaping chunks of stone into exact blocks. The rest of the team was constructing the Wall itself: two men and two women perched on wooden scaffolding as they lifted blocks and spread mortar with their gleaming trowels.

"Water?" Nehima turned to see Felio, and accepted the proffered waterskin. Poor, pale Felio was really suffering from the sun, and the back of his neck was bright red. Nehima couldn't help but feel a little smug that skin like hers always tanned. It must have something to do with her northern blood.

"The last group of Wallmakers checked in this morning," said Felio as he took the waterskin back, pouring a refreshing stream over his burnt neck. "People aren't too happy with us right now."

Nehima answered with a wry smile. The Wallmakers had been recalled from the rest of the Kingdom to work on the Wall, having finished off their other projects. The Charter Stones were complete, weapons had been forged, and now all that was left was to finish the Wall. Of course, over the many years since Ghidreth had founded the Wallmakers' Guild, their services had been called upon by the citizens of the Kingdom. Already protesters had shown up on the Old Kingdom side of the Wall, demanding that the Wallmakers return to their forges in the towns and villages.

Even more vocal in their objections than the Kingdom citizens were the Ancelstierrans. Sir Tralusan was gaining enormous support, and his more extreme followers had started protesting on the other side of the Wall. They were a damned nuisance, in Nehima's opinion, and a few of them had even interfered with the work. She just didn't understand this behaviour, as it was for the good of Ancelstierre that this Wall had been commissioned in the first place. Already they were forgetting that the Ancelstierrans had wanted the Wall built in order to protect them from Free Magic creatures, and other "unusual" things that were associated with the Kingdom.

"I'm going to go speak with some of the protesters," said Felio, looking grim." Why don't you go help your team on the Wall? You go crazy if you're not busy."

Nehima nodded. "Good luck with them," she said, glaring at the rag-tag group of villagers who had shown up to brave the summer heat and demand the return of their beloved Wallmaker, whoever he or she was.

"By the way," Felio called over his shoulder. "Happy birthday, Nehima."

Quite contrary to a normal pleased reaction, Nehima frowned in irritation. She had certainly not told anybody that today she was turning fifty. Trust Felio to remember something like that. She glanced around, desperately hoping that none of the Wallmakers had overheard him, but a few of them seemed to be grinning. Of course, they could be smiling at something else – they weren't even looking at her – but she was suspicious nonetheless. As she strolled by a couple of young Apprentice Wallmakers who were having a mortar-fight, she snapped, "Stop that! Get back to work, the pair of you!" They ducked their heads in chagrin as she swept by.

Nehima reached the Wall and skilfully scaled up the wooden scaffolding, avoiding the stone blocks that were being hauled up to the platform. Her palms were slick with sweat, and her forehead dripped with moisture before she reached the top. Once safely on the platform, she pulled her trowel from her belt and got straight to work spreading the goopy mortar over the tops of the stones. "Good afternoon, Master Nehima!" her Wallmakers greeted her. It was incredibly hot, and most of them had draped their leather vests over the wooden railing.

"Your birthday today, isn't it?" added Kagore, an irritatingly cheerful young woman. "How old are you this year, Master?"

"Forty-something, right?" chirped Quessam, scrunching up his forehead in exaggerated thought. Globs of mortar dropped off his trowel and onto his boots. Nehima hoped they would cement him to the floor.

"Nah, I thought it was fifty," said Kagore, shooting Nehima an impish grin and receiving a death-glare in return.

Quessam's face cleared. "That's it! Well, that's quite a milestone, Master Nehima. Happy fiftieth–"

"You finish that sentence and I'll stick you into this Wall here," Nehima hissed. "I could do it! I'm not kidding!"

Her Wallmakers just laughed, damn them. After years and years, her threats did not seem to be working anymore.

"Hey, look!" called Kagore, pushing black bangs out of her eyes. "A pack of Ancelstierrans have come to visit us!"

Nehima looked over to where the young woman was pointing, and spotted them. Wonderful. Now they had people protesting on both sides of the Wall. There were about twenty Ancelstierrans, men and women of all ages, and they had brought signs painted on pieces of wood. She read the largest one: "Tralusan for Chief Minister."

"Charter help us if Tralusan is elected," she muttered under her breath, spreading mortar with more force than usual.

Kagore overheard her. "Elections are this week," she pointed out. "All of the Lords and knights and other noblemen are going to Corvere to vote in the Moot. And they say that Sir Tralusan is the favourite."

"Tralusan is Anti-Wall," puffed another Wallmaker, Hingon, as he and Quessam pulled more stone blocks up to the wooden platform. "He doesn't understand Charter Magic. He thinks the Bloodlines forced the Bright Shiners to give them power, and that now we want to use them to make the Wall. It's crazy! Anybody who's seen a Bright Shiner would know that nobody could force them into anything."

Nehima accidentally hit her finger with her trowel, and cursed. "I don't like the sound of this Tralusan fellow at all," she grumbled, sucking her finger.

"I read one of his pamphlets," said Kagore as she grabbed a waterskin. She gargled a mouthful of water before spitting it over the Wall onto Ancelstierran soil. "He wants to stop the building of the Wall, and begin a new age devoted to science. He wants to give grants to the Ancelstierran alchemists, astronomers, and philosophers."

"Then Ancelstierre is shaping up to be a pretty boring place," Hingon remarked as he and Quessam placed blocks of stone on top of the mortar. "Tralusan's not even a Charter Mage. He won't want anything to do with the Kingdom if he is elected."

Nehima said nothing as she scooped up some fresh mortar in her trowel. Some people were very strange. In fact, she had heard that some of the Ancelstierrans who lived in towns and villages further south did not even believe that the Dead could rise. It went against all reason, but people could be foolish.

"Princess Farelle is betrothed." Nehima raised her head, relieved at this interjection. Her thoughts lately had become quite bleak, and Felio was right – inaction drove her crazy. She needed to keep her hands and mind occupied, and gossip was always an enjoyable distraction.

"I heard it from my cousin, who is a maid in the palace," continued Kagore. "Apparently there was this very important ball, with officials and nobles from all over the Kingdom. And what does the Crown Princess do? She goes right up to the Captain Javen of the Royal Guard, who is standing at his post, and asks him to dance!"

The Wallmakers exclaimed with surprise at this serious breach in decorum. "What did he say?" Eima asked, not noticing that the ends of her hair were dipping into a bucket of mortar.

"He refused of course!" said Kagore. "He was on-duty, wasn't he? But then you know what the Princess did? She _ordered_ him to dance with her, right there in front of everybody! So he smiled and took her hand… and they started to dance. My cousin says that the King looked furious! Fit to eat his crown, rubies and all, he was."

"That is so romantic," sighed Eima, clasping her hands in rapture.

"What is?" Quessam teased. "Eating the crown?"

"And the wedding date is set." Kagore finished her story looking very pleased. Nehima did not know what to think. She knew that the Princess was awfully young, for one thing. And Dantalion obviously disapproved of the match. Although the idea of marrying outside of one's rank was romantic, Nehima was not a woman who was carried away by flights of fancy.

"Will all the Royal Family be attending?" asked Eima, no doubt envisioning the wedding.

Quessam snorted. "By the sound of it, not the King. And not the Prince, neither. Didn't you hear? He passed his exams to become Lieutenant, and on the first try too."

Nehima had to speak at this. "But that hardly ever happens!" And from what she had heard, Prince Andromis was not a scholar.

"Our Prince is a bright young lad," Hirgon said proudly. He settled another stone into place, and the Wallmakers started to spread mortar atop the new layer. "He'll probably become General of the Army when his sister's Queen."

"And what of young Princess Sitri?" asked Nehima, swatting at a fly. "We've delved into the lives of the other Royal children. What have you heard of her?"

The Wallmakers exchanged glances. "I haven't heard anything," admitted Quessam, hitching up his trousers. "We all know she went to live with the Clayr two years ago. And they're a strange lot, living up in that glacier by themselves."

"It isn't right, a group of women living alone," said Hirgon, frowning.

Kagore laughed. "They're not alone! They have visitors all the time. And they visit Belisaere quite a bit, too. Isn't one of them there now?"

"That's right," said Eima, wiping her hands on her skirt. It did not do much good, because she was splattered from head to toe in mortar and covered in dust. "I can't remember which one, but she is with child now by a lord at court. And there is this huge scandal, because the lord is married."

"That sounds like something the Clayr Gressa would do," remarked Nehima.

Kagore shook her head. "I don't think it's Gressa. She doesn't leave the glacier much. It's probably one of the twins – they do a lot of travelling."

"No offence to the twins, but they're getting old – almost as old as you, Nehima." The Master Wallmaker glared at Quessam, who ducked his head to hide his smirk.

Hirgon scratched his chin. "It's probably Saranim, then," he noted. "She's had a lot of children. Seems like Tirelle passed on her habits to her descendents, if you know what I mean."

"Yeah," Nehima muttered. 'At this rate, the population of Clayr will grow like jackrabbits."

Their laughter faded away when they saw two figures approaching them from the direction of the Wallmakers' huts. Nehima immediately knew that one of them was Felio. And the other…

"Wallmaker!" The Craftsmen dropped their trowels and waved exuberantly at the old woman who was being helped along by Felio. Nehima walked over to the wooden railing and leaned over.

"Yes, hello, hello," said Ghidreth, raising a wrinkled hand in acknowledgement. "Working hard?"

The Wallmakers all nodded their heads. They obviously had a great affection for the old woman, and Nehima hid her smile. "Get back to work, you lot," she snapped over her shoulder, and with some good-natured grumbling the four Craftsmen turned back to the Wall.

"I've just talked to Neryl through my silver square," said Ghidreth. Although old, her voice was still strong, and she wore her leather vest even in the burning heat. "According to the visions of the Clayr, there is little left to be done. There are mainly persistent visions of the Wall."

"That's good to hear," admitted Nehima. "And now we've got all the Wallmakers here, and our other projects are done."

"Not quite," Felio cut in. "Some of them are running a little late, and brought their work with them. But everything should be done within a year or two."

Ghidreth was staring up at the Wall rather absent-mindedly, and Nehima exchanged a worried glance with Felio. He nodded in encouragement. "Ghidreth?" she asked. The old woman blinked and turned to her. Nehima took a deep breath. "Ghidreth, everything's under control at the Wall now. Felio and I have been talking about this for some time…"

Felio stepped in. "We think that you should get some rest, Ghidreth. Take a break from the Wall for a while. Nehima and I can manage things all right, and you will be needing your strength when… in the end, I mean."

The Wallmaker was silent for a moment. Then she grinned, and placed a veined and wrinkled hand on Felio's shoulder. "You two are quite right, as usual. And I've always wanted to return to the Long Cliffs."

Nehima was relieved, and she could see that Felio was too. They had been worried that the Wallmaker would insist upon staying and supervising all stages of construction. This sojourn would do her good, they had no doubt.

As Felio and Ghidreth continued their stroll along the Wall to talk to the various workers, Nehima turned back to her own stretch of Wall. The first thing she noticed was that the Ancelstierran protesters had moved even closer. There were marks on the other side of the Wall where they had thrown clods of dirt.

"Just ignore them," Kagore coughed, waving a hand in front of her face to clear the dust.

Nehima worked along in silence for a few minutes, before – thump! A dirt clod hit the Wall just below her, throwing a spray of soil into her face. Nehima glared stonily at the protesting Ancelstierrans. "Wallmakers," she said out of the corner of her mouth. "Load your trowels."

They stared at her, but obeyed with excited whispers.

"Arms back," Nehima instructed. "And… fire!"

Five globs of mortar sailed through the air. Two smacked into the wooden "Tralusan for Chief Minister" sign, and the other three splattered amongst the alarmed protesters. Wallmakers all along the Wall cheered.

"Ha-haaaa!" crowed Nehima, brandishing her trowel at the Ancelstierrans as if it were a gleaming sword. "And that was _without _magic!"

"You scoundrels!" a woman shrieked, shaking her fist. "You _cannot _treat us like that!"

"Yes I can!" Nehima shouted from her position on the Wall. "Because today is my birthday! And in the spirit of celebration, I have half a mind to set your ridiculous signs on fire."

The Ancelstierrans held a rapid hushed discussion before withdrawing, shooting many an angry glance at the blond-haired Wallmaker. The Apprentices, Craftsmen, and Masters who had witnessed the exchange broke into applause and whistles, and Nehima took a bow. She dramatically stuck her trowel into her belt before jumping back down onto the platform. Her Wallmakers gathered around to congratulate her, but she waved them off. "Enough, enough. Now we can work in peace."

Nehima cleared her throat before raising her voice, which carried along the wall in the still summer air: "Show's over, everyone! Now let's get back to work!" The chattering Wallmakers turned back to their labour. Men and woman set about mixing mortar in tubs, shaping blocks with chisels, and raising the Wall stone by stone.

_A/N:_ _Man, it would be fun to be a Wallmaker… except for the actual manual labour part, of course. In the next chapter we will meet a new character. Well, not exactly new, but we haven't officially met them in the story yet. Want to guess who it is? Reviews welcome, as always._


	37. Within a Ring of Thorns

_A/N: 170 reviews! Over 5000 hits! And people adding this story to their favs and alerts list! I _love_ you guys! Okay, must get a grip… But seriously, if it wasn't for you this would probably still be a five-chapter vignette about the forging of the Abhorsen's sword. Now, on with the story._

_In the book _Abhorsen_, after fleeing from Astarael, Sam, Lirael, and the Disreputable Dog climb up the Steps to the top of the Long Cliffs. There they find a bunch of dead bodies in a field and some thorn trees. The Disreputable Dog tells Lirael and Sam that a creature was once bound there, inside a stone anvil within a ring of thorns. She seemed quite knowledgeable about it, too. So at long last, we finally get to meet Kibeth!_

**Within a Ring of Thorns**

Although it was late summer, the cool evening air was enough to send shivers through an old woman's frame. Ghidreth pulled her heavy woollen cloak more tightly about her as she circled the perimeter of her property. The Wallmaker paused every few steps to mutter a spell, and the Charter Marks settled into the shadows between the thorn trees, barely visible in the gathering gloom.

The Lesser Stones were complete, the Clayr's Glacier was complete, and now Ghidreth was taking some well-deserved time off while her Wallmakers laboured to finish the Wall on time. She had decided to return to her childhood home; the choice had been a sentimental one rather than a wise one.

On top of the Long Cliffs was the old family forge, where Ghidreth had resided until she had moved to Belisaere. She came from a long line of blacksmiths and carpenters, and her many-times-great-grandsire's stone anvil stood outside of the house. It was a very modest house, with a small vegetable patch and wooden pens for the animals, and the whole thing was surrounded by a large ring of thorn trees. The ring delineated her property and offered modest protection – protection which she was improving now by hiding protective spells and alarms among the brambles. In the days of her ancestors there had been a village nearby, but that was gone now, and this empty field under the darkening sky was dangerously secluded.

Ghidreth paused to stretch her arthritic back, thankful that her hands were still as strong as ever. That she had lived to an old age in what had been a very perilous time was remarkable. She remembered old King Berillan, and Lord Abhorsen, and the Clayr Tirelle, and smiled in affection. Those warm feelings faded when other faces unexpectedly sprang to mind – eighteen faces, to be precise. Eighteen Wallmakers who had sacrificed themselves to make the Great Stones. Ghidreth winced at the horrid feelings of guilt, and could not help but wonder how she could condone the building of the Wall, if she felt so terrible about the price paid for the Great Stones.

The woman finished casting her spells on the thorns, and thankfully entered her house. She hung her cloak on a hook by the door, and with an enormous sigh settled into a chair at her workbench. Sorting through the jumble of papers and half-finished items, she eventually took up a small contraption that she had been repairing.

"Bit messy in here, isn't it?"

Ghidreth jumped at the voice, knocking several tools to the ground. She looked about in the wavering orange light of the stove fire and muttered a command. Charter marks instantly flared to life, illuminating every corner of the room. When she saw who it was, the Wallmaker relaxed and allowed the marks to fade. "I did not hear you come in," she said with a rueful smile.

The visitor grinned back. "Snuck in while you were checking the wards on your thorn trees, and you know they can't keep me out. What've you got there?"

"It's only a toy. Something I have been trying to fix ever since I stepped on it." Ghidreth held it out for her visitor to see. "A cart hitched to a wooden horse on wheels."

"Funny!" The visitor examined the object with an air of intense fascination, before turning to view the entire room.

Ghidreth had to admit that, to a visitor, her home must be very interesting indeed. It was full of motion, for one thing. On every available surface were things whirring, glowing, rolling about, making tinny clanking noises, and puffing with smoke. "You never visited me here before, have you?" asked Ghidreth in sudden recollection. "Go on, Kibeth. Take a look around."

The black dog seemed only to have been waiting for the invitation, and joyfully bounded over to a rack that held an assortment of weapons. She sniffed at the wicked-looking head of a battleaxe with great enthusiasm. The Wallmaker tried to turn back to her work, but found that she could not concentrate, as she was worried that the Bright Shiner would knock something over with her furiously-wagging tail.

"What's that?" exclaimed Kibeth, leaving the battleaxe and springing over to a barrel that sat by the forge.

"It is water," said Ghidreth, and winced when the dog extended her neck so that she was able to peek over the rim. Satisfied with what she saw, Kibeth placed her large black paws up on the rim and stuck her furry head over the side. She lapped noisily at the water, and gave a whiskery sneeze.

"That is special water, although not for drinking," the Wallmaker explained, stifling a sigh. "It is sweet, but my ancestors used it for forging weapons. That is an old tale in my family."

"Really?" the dog woofed, settling back onto her haunches as her neck returned to its original length. "I like a good tale." Her dark eyes twinkled, and her own tail thumped on the ground.

Ghidreth smiled. "Very well. My ancestor the blacksmith, who built his forge on the Long Cliffs, found a spring at the base of them. He and discovered that weapons quenched in the water were nearly indestructible. So he spent years carving three thousand steps – just wide enough for one – down the side of the Long Cliffs to the spring."

"And all for the water at the foot?" said Kibeth, cocking her head to the side.

The Wallmaker nodded. "The very best blades in existence have been tempered by that water. I even had some brought from that very spring to the Wall for my use. It's quite special."

The dog stared at the barrel, then shook her head before getting up to explore again. Ghidreth was finally able to concentrate on her work, but was interrupted minutes later by a crash. She turned to see a very sheepish-looking dog standing beside a suit of gethre armour, which was in pieces.

The Wallmaker stood and placed her hands on her hips. "How could you be one of the Seven?" she asked in exasperation.

Kibeth blew on the pieces of armour, which reassembled themselves, and snorted in derision. "You would rather I be like the others? They're all boring. Dyrim never knew when to shut up, Saraneth was too bossy, Mosrael was noisy, Ranna does nothing but sleep all the time, Belgaer thinks too much, Astarael is downright scary, and Yrael is a pain in the tail. And don't even get me started on Orannis," she concluded with a growl.

The Wallmaker reflected on the dog's words. "I never thought of them that way," she admitted, marvelling at how… _human_ the Bright Shiners seemed when described in those terms. "There are only four of you left now," she remarked.

"Ranna and Belgaer seem hell-bent on putting their whole selves into the Wall. But not Astarael."

"And not you," Ghidreth pointed out. "Will you be leaving the world soon, Kibeth?"

The dog scratched her ear. "I like it here," she replied, not really answering the question. "I'm curious to see how things turn out. We'll see."

The old woman let the matter slide. "Is Astarael still living under the Abhorsen's House?" she asked, turning back to her work. Only one more wheel left to fasten.

Kibeth grinned, showing all of her very white teeth. "She always lived there. She's just retiring, like you."

"Cassiel is terrified that she will kill him."

Kibeth snorted. "No danger of that. She likes him. Must be that whole Death thing they have in common. And he may not know, but Astarael did gift his father with some of her powers, not only Saraneth."

"Gift?" repeated Ghidreth thoughtfully. "Not many people see it as a gift. In fact, many don't want the Bright Shiners to leave. They're blaming your disappearances on the Bloodlines, and us Wallmakers."

The dog wrinkled her nose, baring her teeth slightly. "People are fools."

"Yes they are," the Wallmaker agreed, "but it might even come to civil war. Prince Orrofin's nephew Tralusan might be elected Chief Minister. And if he is, the Kingdom will be in trouble." Ghidreth placed the newly-repaired horse and cart on the workbench. She gave a soft whistle, and the horse rolled forward, pulling the little cart behind it. It rolled and rolled until it ran into a pile of parchment.

Kibeth gave an admiring woof. "How fun! I love all of your little machines."

"Mogget hated them," said Ghidreth, putting away her tools. "When he was in the cage in my house at the Wall, I often found some of my contraptions in pieces. Once I made a wind-up bird which flew around singing, and Mogget in his white tiger form snapped it out of the air and ended up with a mouthful of crunchy metal bits." Kibeth gave a bark of laughter, and the woman could not quite hold back her own giggles. "You think he would have been able to tell," she chortled, "what with the big shiny wind-up key sticking out of the bird's back."

Kibeth roared with laughter and rolled right onto her back. In the midst of their hilarity, Ghidreth suddenly felt a small surge of magic, and tensed; something had breached the spells in the thorn trees and tripped the alarm. She got up and stared at the door, listening with all of her might.

The dog caught her mood and stopped laughing. "What is it?" she muttered, getting to her paws and shaking herself from nose to tail. Her ears had grown so large that she resembled a wingless bat.

"Something set off one of my alarms," replied Ghidreth. She picked up her hammer from where it was leaning against the Wall. From a shelf she took down a small metal butterfly, and muttered a spell. The little insect came to life, carrying a glowing lantern with its spindly silver legs. The Charter lights in the house dimmed as Ghidreth opened the door.

It was night, and she could not see anything. Her horse was whinnying in fear, but no other strange sounds came to her ears. Clutching her hammer, heart pounding, Ghidreth stepped outside. The moon was hidden behind some clouds, and with a whisper she directed the flapping metal butterfly forward. It sailed out into the darkness carrying its tiny yellow light.

Ghidreth only got a glimpse of the thing before it smashed the butterfly and lantern to pieces, but what she did see burned itself into her memory: A tall, vaguely man-shaped thing covered in matted fur, feeding on the limp body of one of her goats, blood dripping from hooked yellow fangs.

The Wallmaker brought up the hammer, ignoring the throbbing pain in her lower back. She took a step forward, and threw out a hand. "Ferhan!"

The golden mark blazed forward, and Ghidreth had another glimpse of tousled brown fur. It was brief, but enough for her to take aim, and she swung the hammer. It connected with a satisfying crunch, and an ear-splitting howl shattered the night.

The Wallmaker stepped back, just in time. She felt the passage of air on her cheek as a clawed paw swiped by. There was a muffled thump, and Ghidreth realized that the creature had dropped the remains of the goat to concentrate on the more immediate threat – _her_. The Wallmaker cursed silently as she dodged about in the darkness, concentrating on not dislocating a hip or doing anything equally foolish. Mentally she scrambled to pull out strings of Charter marks, weaving them together and holding them in her mind. She needed a binding spell, and a good one. She dragged combinations of marks from her memories of crafting Mogget's collar, and added a few of her own. Marks for imprisonment, encasing, shielding, compressing, constricting…

She barely managed to duck another blow in the darkness, and struggled to keep the Charter marks together in her thoughts. The spell was nearly complete. Only a few more seconds–

The next thing Ghidreth felt was considerable pain, as the creature's paw caught her arm. Hooked claws ripped through flesh and tendon, and the Wallmaker screamed as her hammer fell from nerveless hands. The golden mesh of Charter marks split, fracturing into chips of light. She fought to keep them intact, gathering up the fraying ends with frenzied desperation.

Something flared at the edge of her vision, and Ghidreth turned to see a sight both terrifying and magnificent. Kibeth stood outside the doorway of her modest home, but she had grown larger than a horse. Her black coat was wreathed in fire and shimmered against the night, and flames dripped from her teeth. It was beautiful. It was petrifying.

"Get away from her!" Kibeth boomed. The house rattled.

The dog's aura had cast the clearing into sharp relief. As if by the light of a bonfire, Ghidreth could see the creature scuttling away into the shadows.

"Do you have the spell ready?" the dog rumbled, turning her wild gaze to the Wallmaker.

The old woman concentrated on the Charter marks, drawing them together once more. In an instant it was done. Now she needed something to cast it on, an object of earth or stone, an object to serve as a vessel, to serve as the prison… Her eyes landed on the old stone anvil, which stood between her and the cowering creature, and she placed her good hand on the cool surface. Closing her eyes, she felt the carefully-woven spell leaking out through her fingers and permeating the rock. She stepped back, and nodded at the Bright Shiner.

Kibeth turned to the creature, and gave a malicious grin. "Now, walk!" she barked.

The creature took a juddering step forward into the light, shielding its small eyes with bloody paws.

Kibeth smiled in satisfaction. "Nearly there," she hissed, baring teeth as long as Ghidreth's hand. "Walk!"

The creature flinched as if struck, and crept forward until it stood before the anvil, which was now glowing faintly.

The dog inhaled deeply, and leaned forward. "_Walk_!" she boomed, and her voice sent ripples through the air and ground. Ghidreth's white hair flew back from her face. Sparks burst from the glimmering anvil. The thorn trees bent over nearly double. And the creature walked, walked until it stepped onto the anvil. Immediately the glowing Charter marks flowed up from the stone, through the contact with the creature, and over the mass of fur and claws and teeth and blood. They enveloped the thing, constricting like a fisher's net and pulling it into the cold, hard imprisonment of stone.

The marks twinkled on the surface of the anvil before fading away. Nobody could unlock those spells, not even the Wallmaker.

Ghidreth backed away from the anvil, wheezing as she staunched the flow from her wounded arm. She turned, and blinked at the sight of a normal-looking black and tan dog standing outside her door. "That was fun," Kibeth said with a doglike grin. "We should do this more often!" Her tail was wagging.

The Wallmaker gave a tight smile, and tucked her long white hair under her kerchief. "I think I need a drink."

_A/N: This is the first time that I've written Kibeth, so please tell me how I did._

_This was yet another "goody" chapter that explained a plothole in Nix's books. If you can think of anything that hasn't been covered yet, I will welcome your suggestions. I do have a few more goodies planned, but perhaps there are some things I haven't thought of._

_Just a reminder that if you would like an "honourable mention", I'd love to do it! So far there's been VanillaBean CEO (Villana Bane the pubkeeper), EvilDonut (Devon Tuli the assassin), and ValorieJueles (short-lived henchman Veloria). I've also got "plans" for Lady of the Outlaws._


	38. The King's Council

_A/N: Apparently some people were having trouble accessing this chapter, so I'm reposting it. I'm sorry about the delay, but I went out partying for Saint Patrick's Day, and the whole subsequent week I had to work on a huge formal lab report due Friday. So this weekend I actually got around to writing this chapter. To make it up to you, it's rather long. We've had enough peace and happiness in the Old Kingdom, and it's time for Trouble to rear its ugly head. As you can probably tell by the title, this won't be an action-packed chapter. But Trouble will be there all the same!_

_To anonymous reviewer Dragonchad4: Glad you're enjoying it so far! I don't think there would have been dragons in the Old Kingdom, as they would surely have been mentioned. Other mythological creatures do not exist in the Old Kingdom either, but this doesn't rule out the possibility of there being "dragon-like" creatures._

_To anonymous reviewer Violinboy: You and LimeJuiceTub both thought of Holehallow, and I nearly hit myself for forgetting something so important! As such, I've altered the setting of one of my chapters, and we should be seeing the famous burial place of the Kings and Queens in… about 3 chapters. Thanks for reviewing!_

**The King's Council**

"It's beautiful here."

Cassiel turned to smile at his wife, who was walking beside him down a sandy path. She was looking around at the russet leaves in rapture. "I quite agree. Why can't we have gardens like these?" he teased.

Lessandra rolled her eyes. "Perhaps because we don't have Royal gardeners. Although," she added with a thoughtful expression, "if you _did_ ask the king, he would probably let you borrow them."

"Should I?" Cassiel pretended to consider. "I cannot ask too many favours of my King, you know. They must be chosen with great care. What if I were to request a company of soldiers to help fend off an army of Dead, and he were to say, 'I'm sorry, but you did borrow my gardeners last year. Some other time, perhaps.' What then?"

Lessandra punched him – hard – on the arm.

"Mommy is beating up daddy again!" A dark-haired boy poked his head out of a large patch of sunflowers.

Cassiel instantly hitched a happy-go-lucky grin onto his face. "Nonsense, Turiel," he scolded his younger son. "Mommy never beats up daddy. You keep saying that and daddy will be forced to give you up for adoption."

Lessandra punched him again, which caused Turiel to let out an incriminating squeal. Cassiel turned to his wife. "Well, he's _your_ son," he said.

The woman smiled and shook her head, but flung up her hands. A hundred balls of multicoloured light shot from her fingers, and went bouncing among the sunflowers. "Go on, Turiel!" she encouraged. "Go chase the lights!" The little boy took off and was soon lost amidst the thick green stems. Only a slight quivering of a few sunflower heads indicated his location.

Cassiel stared after his son, who had been so cheerfully distracted. "Do you think our Turiel is a bit dim?" he asked with mock seriousness.

Lessandra frowned with equal gravity. "No, I do not think so. He just likes to chase little balls of light, which is quite useful if you want your child to leave you alone. It's too bad that trick does not work anymore on Vichael – I tried it last week, and he gave me a look of pure disgust."

They carried on down the garden path, and came to a small clearing where a jade fountain held pride of place. And there on the steps of the fountain was their older son.

"Vichael!" Lessandra said in that sharp voice that seems to come naturally to all mothers. "What are you doing?"

The boy paused in the act of reaching for something, which Cassiel realized was a ball of crystal. The elaborate jade fountain was topped by an intricately-carved fish, which held the gleaming orb in its mouth. It was altogether too tempting to be passed up by a ten-year-old boy.

"Get down from there," Lessandra scolded. "You shouldn't touch those things."

"That's right," Cassiel chimed in, endeavouring to look stern. "Only adults are allowed to do that." He marched past his son and up the fountain steps, reaching out for the alluring crystal ball. His fingers were three inches away… two…

"Lord Cassiel Abhorsen!"

The man withdrew his hand as if scalded, and whirled around, half-drawing his sword. He relaxed marginally when he saw that the speaker was one of five palace guards. The officer was staring at him incredulously. Cassiel was suddenly all-to-aware of how ridiculous he must have looked, caught in the act of stealing one of the King's garden decorations. He hopped off the steps, and endeavoured to appear as dignified as he possibly could under the circumstances. "What can I do for you gentlemen?"

The officer recovered from his shock with admirable celerity. "You can come with us."

Cassiel exchanged a worried glance with his wife, but winked reassuringly at his son before following the officer. The other guards immediately surrounded him in a protective box, and they marched together towards the palace. The Abhorsen started to become seriously worried. Surely he wasn't going to be arrested for trying to steal palace property? The man's worries escalated when they entered the palace from a side door. Was this what happened to the unfortunate souls who broke the laws of hospitality at the palace? Were they thrown into a secret dungeon and never heard from again?

He followed the officer through winding corridors and lost track of the twists and turns. Despite this, the journey was becoming familiar. When the officer finally threw open a pair of doors and bowed him into a room, Cassiel knew that _he_ was not in trouble – the Kingdom was. It was the very conference room where he had decided the fate of Alocas years and years ago. Dantalion had since turned it into a clandestine meeting-place for his Council, and Cassiel had been in attendance on many occasions.

Dantalion glanced up at his entrance and motioned him towards the chair to his left. Guards stood by every door, and scribes sat unnoticed against the walls. Cassiel was surprised that the full Council had been summoned. It was something serious, then.

There were twenty-one other Councillors in the room, over half of whom were members of prominent families of impeccable lineage. The King appointed his Councillors, and as there were so many noble families in the Kingdom the requisite twelve seats had been filled with people of generally good sense. Most of them were rather introvert, something that Cassiel suspected was deliberate – it certainly cut down on the amount of bickering and generally childish and wasteful behaviour.

The other members of the Council were much more interesting, and had all been appointed to the Council due to their responsibilities within the palace or Kingdom, such as Cassiel Abhorsen. The ten of them were clustered at one end of the table with the King like and exclusive club, and the divide between them and the twelve nobles was so obvious it was almost painful.

Glancing at the empty chair at the foot of the table, Cassiel spoke to the man seated across from him. "No mediator today, Master Bieryn?"

The beanpole-thin Master of the Household peered down a nose so sharp you could cut paper with it. "I'm afraid not, Lord Abhorsen," he said with a wry smile. "Queen Penemue is on a goodwill visit to Estwael, and Crown Princess Farelle is at petty court."

"Mediator" was what many of the Councillors called the Queen or Crown Princess during such meetings. Their regular contributions to the debate prevented the conversation from being entirely dominated by the ten individuals seated near the King. The Queen or Princess also encouraged involvement from the twelve nobles. There had always been tensions between the two factions, and today it looked like not one of the twelve nobles would get a word in edgeways. Cassiel felt smug – leave the talking to the main players.

His spirits took a sudden nosedive when he saw Sir Falgon of Olmond taking a seat as far up the table as he could, practically rubbing elbows with a Lieutenant of the Royal Guard. Usually, Cassiel was amused when a noble attempted to join the conversation, but this particular man irritated him.

When the last person had taken their seat, the Dantalion stood to speak: "Thank you for coming." The men and women ceased their chatter, and Dantalion nodded at the woman who headed the spy ring in Ancelstierre. She was sporting a sour expression; obviously something of consequence had happened in the neighbouring country. "Lady Rilmea, if you would."

The woman stood and cleared her throat, rolling back the sleeves of her severe black robes. "Council members," she greeted them with an ironic inclination of the head. "I bring grave news. Earlier today at noon it was announced that Sir Tralusan has been elected to be the third Chief Minister of Ancelstierre." An incredulous babble broke out, but was instantly hushed when the woman raised her arms. "He is being sworn in by the Hereditary Arbiter as we speak. I assure you that this information came from our own consul in Corvere, a reliable source."

"What has been done in the meantime?" demanded General Paleon from the seat beside Cassiel. As usual, his military uniform was spotless, and the ebony baton that marked his station gleamed on the table before him.

"No direct action has been taken," said King Dantalion. He looked tired, but his voice was strong. "Rilmea's agents in Ancelstierre await our orders. A message has been sent to the Clayr at the Glacier, as well as Master Felio at the Wall. This Council must decide our course of action."

"What do we know of this Tralusan person?" Cassiel tried not to wince when he heard that voice. It was Sir Falgon, the pathetic one-eyed noble who always tried to muscle in on their discussions. Master Bieryn shot Cassiel a significant look, and Cassiel gave a slight nod – Falgon was only a member of the Council because his father had been a valued advisor of King Berillan.

Lady Rilmea looked very cross at having to answer to Falgon, a mere seat-filler. "We know that Sir Tralusan is Anti-Wall, like many Ancelstierrans," she said, scowling. "He is spreading the belief that the Bloodlines are using the Bright Shiners to augment their own powers, and that completing the Wall is act of violence against them. Tralusan does not sympathize with the Kingdom. He is not a Charter Mage, and thinks that necromancers and the Dead are superstition." Lady Rilmea cast an apologetic glance at Cassiel with that last comment. He waved it off, but inwardly decided that he did not like the sound of this Tralusan person.

"We need to know more," declared the one-eyed knight, knuckling his eye patch in a way that made Cassiel vaguely queasy. The Abhorsen was tempted to congratulate him for stating the obvious, but Dantalion usually did not appreciate sarcasm.

The King elected to ignore Sir Falgon. "Rilmea, have our contacts in Ancelstierre find everything they can on Tralusan. Use all of our agents – consuls, Lords who are faithful to us, informants in noble households – _everybody_. Focus on his relations with the other members of the Moot. I want to know who he has for allies in there."

"We will know soon enough," Bieryn remarked bitterly. "As Chief Minister, Tralusan will elect his own supporters as the Twelve Ministers in the Moot." Murmurs broke out among the Council members, but Cassiel said nothing; he had no head for politics, and did not want to risk sounding stupid. If only his wife had come along – she could have advised him.

"You say that Tralusan is Anti-Wall," spoke up a man in red and gold livery. Dantalion gave the speaker a dark glare that he reserved only for Javen, Captain of the Royal Guard. Javen also happened to be the King's son-in-law, something for which Dantalion might never forgive him. The young man had Cassiel's sympathy. "Surely now that he has been elected, his extreme supporters will be encouraged to take action."

"The Captain is right," declared General Paleon. "The Wallmakers are vulnerable right now. We should send a force to protect them."

Heads turned to regard the palace Wallmaker Eilune, one of the few who were not at the Wall. "I agree," she confirmed grimly. "We can defend ourselves, but we cannot afford any delay in the Wall's construction. It has been dragging on long enough."

"Which Companies are closest to the Wall?" asked the King of the room at large.

The General's aide spoke up with alacrity: "Blue, White, and Gold Companies of the Twelfth Regiment, and Green and Gold Companies of the Sixteenth. All no more than two days' ride."

Dantalion did not hesitate. "Have them abort their missions and report directly to the Wall, until such time that we can post some Companies there permanently." The General glanced at his aide, who sprang to her feet and executed a smart salute before leaving through one of the doors, accompanied by a scribe.

The King turned back to the table and Cassiel, who sat at his left, could tell that he was exhausted. But of course, Dantalion would not show it. "Let's move on. What reaction can we expect from our people?"

Madam Ophwin leaned forward, interlacing spindly fingers covered in hideous antique rings. Cassiel wondered if all archivists were so enmeshed in history that they shunned modern fashions. "It may be similar to conditions during the Civil War," the old lady croaked. "Some of the citizens of the Kingdom will move, in this case to Ancelstierre. There are many who do not agree with the Wall. One need only look at the petitions we have been receiving."

Sir Falgon snorted. "We never received criticism regarding the Wall _before _that cursed Tralusan started his campaign." He pounded his fist on the tabletop to make his point, and Cassiel resisted the urge to draw his sword and lunge over the table. From the way the General and Captain Javen were glaring, he was not alone.

The archivist cast a disdainful look at the one-eyed knight, and continued. "The Kingdom will also lose a great number of our alchemists, astronomers, and philosophers, who will seek patronage from the Ancelstierre Moot to continue their work."

"That is true," added Lady Rilmea, pausing in the act of drafting a letter on a scrap of parchment. "It is rumoured that Tralusan is planning to establish a gathering place in Wyverly for people of learning. We could lose some of our most brilliant minds to Ancelstierre."

"The outlook cannot be as bleak as you are all making it out to be," boomed General Paleon, causing everyone to jump as if they were on the parade ground. Captain Javen and his Lieutenant actually sat up to attention. "If some of our people cross the Wall to Ancelstierre, then others will come over to our side."

"The northern villagers certainly might," said Lady Rilmea. A rare smile diffused over her features, making her look quite sinister. "They use Charter magic and are faithful to the Kingdom."

"Perhaps we shouldn't continue building the Wall," said Madam Ophwin suddenly. "After all, we did not agree to such an enormous undertaking. It was the Ancelstierrans who originally requested, to King Berillan early in his rule, that the Wall be built."

The members of the Council turned to stare at the historian as she played with her rings. Even the twelve lords and ladies looked flabbergasted, when usually they could be counted upon not to have any opinions. Except, of course, Sir Falgon. "Are you daft?" Falgon roared, glaring with a fury that more than made up for the fact that he had only one eye. "If we stop building the Wall, then Tralusan has already won!"

"Actually, that's not such a bad idea," muttered Captain Javen, "at least in part." He explained to the Council, who had turned their glares on him for having the audacity to side with Falgon. "Tralusan's first target as Chief Minister will be the Wall. It might be wise to halt construction for a few months until the tumult dies down."

"It will make the Wall easier to guard," agreed the General, coming to the younger man's aid. Cassiel sometime thought that if it wasn't for General Paleon, Javen would have been assassinated in the night at the King's behest.

The King, however, was frowning. "Madam Ophwin," said Dantalion, "we already agreed that any delay in the building of the Wall would be costly. Sir Falgon, kindly keep a civil tongue in your head when speaking to other members of this Council. Captain, I would appreciate it if you confined your voiced opinions to matters concerning your station. General, I have no doubt in the competence of our soldiers, and am certain they will perform their duties admirably." Cassiel marvelled at the King's rapid-fire delivery, and how he had managed to alternately gratify and offend the members of his Council governed by his personal opinion of them. Ophwin and Falgon looked abashed, Javen looked affronted, and General Paleon looked complacent. Cassiel wished he had the King's powers of speech.

Dantalion carried on. "What we need," he said, "is to dispel this ridiculous notion that the three Bloodlines have enslaved the Bright Shiners. Much of Tralusan's support is derived from this allegation. If we show that the Bright Shiners willingly put themselves into the Bloodlines and Stones, then Tralusan will have to abandon his attack against the Wall. This is our primary objective. The movement of our scholars into Ancelstierre is secondary at this point." Elderly Madam Ophwin looked as though she would like to disagree, but she held her tongue.

"Perhaps we should go to the Bright Shiners for help," suggested Lady Rilmea. "One of them could speak to Tralusan."

"He would claim that we forced the Bright Shiner to defend the Wall," Bieryn pointed out with his trademark pessimism.

Dantalion gave a grim smile. "If you speak to a Bright Shiner, Master Bieryn, you know that nobody can force them to do anything. It is a good plan, but nobody knows where any of the Bright Shiners are. They come and go as they please and cannot be summoned."

"Wait a moment." said the Head Charter Mage, waving his hands for attention. Girvase's predecessor had lost her place on the Council by marrying Princess Farelle and Captain Javen without the King's express permission. The newest Councillor pointed at Cassiel. "Doesn't one of the Seven reside beneath your house?"

"Astarael does," Cassiel confirmed, shuddering at the thought. "But I value my life. If any of you feel like chatting with the Weeper and asking her to speak with Tralusan, you're welcome to try. But keep in mind that every person she speaks to tends to die."

That suggestion quashed, the Council had nothing more to say on the matter.

"General Paleon," said the King offhandedly. "Considering what you know of the fighting men in Ancelstierre, what would our chances be should war break out?"

The Councillors stared at their King, either surprised that he was even considering the possibility of war, or shocked at the careless tone he had employed when speaking of it. Cassiel was one of the former. He suddenly realized that the threat of war was very real. Bad feelings still existed between the Ancelstierrans and the citizens of the Kingdom from the Civil War. That had been in his grandfather's time, but Cassiel could not deny that stigmas were widespread in both countries.

"…difficult to say," the General was replying when Cassiel returned to the conversation. "We are a proper Army, whereas Ancelstierre's fighting force consists of the Lords and their Knights, and a few private armies. But our forces are stretched across the Kingdom and take days to muster. If our soldiers can access the Charter as they fight, then victory will be ours. If not, there will be heavy losses on both sides."

"Bieryn?"

The Master of the Household shook his head. "War would be detrimental at this point, Your Highness. Our treasuries are far from full, and the people would object to the taxation, if not the bloodshed. My advice to you is to avoid war at all costs."

The King nodded and sat back in his chair. He closed his eyes for nearly ten seconds, during which time everyone sat silently and held their breath. Finally, he opened his eyes and clasped his hands, having come to a decision. "Rilmea," he said briskly. "Have our consul in Corvere contact Sir Tralusan with the message that I wish to meet with him personally, as soon as possible, in any place that he should choose." He regarded the watching Councillors, offering no explanation. "Dismissed."

In the bustle as people got up, stretched, and talked, Cassiel turned to the King. "This is completely unrelated," he said in a hushed whisper, uncomfortably aware of Bieryn listening in, "but Lessandra adores the palace gardens. I was wondering if you could possibly–"

"Bieryn," said Dantalion, fully aware of the eavesdropping Master of the Household, "send four of our gardeners to the Abhorsen's House." He clapped Cassiel on the shoulder. "Of course, you do understand that the next time you ask for a company of soldiers, you're not getting it."

"I did explain that to her," said Cassiel with a sigh. "But she resorted to physical violence." Dantalion grinned and turned to address the General.

As the King walked away, Master Bieryn snorted. "You must be the only person other than Queen Penemue who understands our King's sense of humour."

_A/N: So, how is Ancelstierre going to agree with Dantalion and his subjects? How are the citizens going to react to this election? And who is this Tralusan guy, anyway?_

_Okay, want to know how much of a geek I am? I basically created all twenty-two members of the King's Council (the twelve nobles and the ten other Councillors), and worked out their seating arrangement around the table. Talk about overkill! By the way, the ten Councillors who sit at the King's end of the table were all mentioned, eight of them by name. Can you spot them?_


	39. Welcome to the Moot

_A/N: Now we enter the sticky world of politics. A lot of this information was gleaned from Garth Nix's novels, but I had to make up a lot of stuff too – all the more fun for me. Hope you enjoy it. Oh, and huge thanks to Vanilla Bean CEO, kirdane, Rainstorm Amaya Arianrhod, and Lady of the Outlaws for the wonderful reviews!_

**Welcome to the Moot**

If there was one thing to be said about Corvere, it was that it was dirty. Very dirty. The wide streets were churned with thick mud where horses trotted by, so that people on foot were obliged to walk along the sides of the road. Although better than the quagmire so optimistically called a "road", these footpaths were hazardous enough – it was a very wet autumn. And so it happened that the Crown Princess of the Kingdom was forced to hitch up her skirts and slog through three inches of cold mud, ruining a perfectly good pair of boots in the process.

Of course, the soldiers accompanying her had gallantly offered to lift her over the worst of the muck, but Farelle had declined. She did have a reputation to consider, and the last thing the Ancelstierrans needed to see was the Crown Princess being lifted over a puddle like a little girl.

The good citizens of Corvere were not being subtle about their curiosity. Farelle was now accustomed to the open stares, the whispers, and even the rude pointing. She could see why they attracted so much attention. Most Ancelstierrans seemed to favour drab, practical woollen clothes as they went about their day-to-day business, and the only splashes of colour were among a few people around her own age. Next to them, Farelle and her soldiers in their red and gold stood out like roses among weeds. Add to that a multitude of shiny weapons, and they were the most exciting thing to happen to Corvere.

"We are here, Milady," said the officer, and Farelle abruptly awakened from her daydreams.

"Thank you, Captain," she murmured, looking up at the enormous white building. She felt more nervous than she had anticipated, but managed to hide it. Moot Hall was the grandest building in Corvere, situated in the very centre of the city. It had once been part of the home of Lord Ancel, but much of the palace had been destroyed during the Civil War. The vast rooms that had survived had been converted into the Chambers where the Ancelstierre Moot held their meetings. It was a place of history, and embodied the past enmity between Ancelstierre and the Kingdom.

The Crown Princess left muddy footprints on the white stone steps as she climbed, surrounded by an escort of soldiers. Her father had insisted upon soldiers rather than the Royal Guard, insisting that it was a courtesy towards General Paleon, who was accompanying them. Farelle had not believed him for an instant. She knew that her father did not want her husband Javen nearby. It was ridiculous; they were already married, and still the King was trying to keep them apart. Farelle's mother had the tendency to laugh whenever she voiced her suspicions, but the Queen had always been biased when it came to her husband.

Farelle reached the top step and entered the building through one of the many carved wooden doors. Moot Hall was a completely circular building, with a corridor surrounding the innermost Chamber. Farelle and her soldiers walked the corridor until they found the rest of the Kingdom delegation.

King Dantalion and Master Felio of the Wallmakers were exchanging pleasantries, and the General of the Army was issuing some last-minute instructions to his soldiers. Neryl of the Clayr smiled at Farelle in welcome, and the two women kissed cheeks.

"My dear, how are you?" asked the Voice of the Clayr.

"Tolerable," Farelle answered. She pulled up her skirts and stuck out a mud-caked boot. "I've become acquainted with the city. Take a look at this."

Neryl looked torn between amusement and reproach, but any comment was cut off by the arrival of a small group of Ancelstierrans. The men greeted the King warmly, and although they were too far south of the Wall to reach the Charter, the faint Charter Marks on their foreheads were visible to Farelle. In all probability, they owned estates in the north close to the Wall. The Princess gave the requisite smiles and curtseys, made polite conversation, and even bore the evaluating stares of the lords and their eligible sons. Obviously they were not keeping up with Kingdom news and had not heard of her marriage.

The Crown Princess scrutinized every Ancelstierran Lord and Mage who entered Moot Hall. Some of them were friendly to the Kingdom and came over for a word or two. Others gave them looks of open hostility, obvious supporters of Tralusan who believed the absolute rubbish he was preaching. Still others were neutral; the Kingdom would need to win them over today.

Farelle having an unsuccessful conversation with a half-deaf Lord when Felio touched her arm in warning. She turned, and spotted a large group of men heading towards them purposefully. The Lords muttered apologies and withdrew, and the soldiers regarded the newcomers with suspicion, hefting their spears.

A tall man with broad shoulders stepped forward, and inclined his head with minimal politeness. "King Dantalion," he said in a deep voice. "It is a pleasure to meet you in person at last. I and the rest of the Moot welcome you."

"Sir Tralusan," said the King, inclining his head in turn.

Farelle stared at the men. So _this_ was Sir Tralusan, the first Chief Minister of Ancelstierre not of the Royal Line. He was a large man, the same height as her father but broader. His black beard was heavy despite how close it was trimmed, and he wore a black and silver tunic in seeming defiance of the Kingdom's red and gold. The medallion of his office glittered on his chest, and a sword was at his side. Farelle's sharp eyes noticed that the sword seemed to have received little use – it was probably more for show than anything else. As he made the necessary polite comments, the Princess noted that his voice was low and rumbling, like thunder. When this man spoke, people would listen. He reminded Farelle of a large bear, but an eerily cultured one – she half-expected him to explode at any moment. They would have to be very careful with him.

The requisite welcome was over soon, and the two groups entered the Inner Chamber through vast double doors, with Tralusan and his entourage leading the way. Farelle checked on the threshold to survey the room. The Inner Chamber was circular, and had rings of benches running around the edges. There were piles of parchment littering various surfaces, and the benches were crammed full of men and women. In a box opposite the double doors sat the Hereditary Arbiter, who presided over the meetings. In the box below him were the scribes, who were busy sharpening quills and unrolling parchment. It was noisy and crowded, and Farelle thought that the palace's Master of the Household Bieryn would've had a fit and started to spontaneously clear up the papers.

Tralusan took a seat in the front row to one side of the Arbiter's box, and Dantalion led his delegation to the other side. As Farelle settled into her seat, she looked around to get her bearings. Most of the members of the Moot seated on their side of the Chamber were sympathetic to the Kingdom. But two benches away sat a couple of large, rather mean-looking lords who glowered at her when they saw her staring. A little ways away from them was an ancient woman accompanied by an enormous brown dog. And just settling into the seat behind her was somebody she had not seen in a long time.

"Aunt Merabel!" she grinned, embracing the woman as best she could over the back of her bench. Merabel was Dantalion's younger sister, and had been sent to Ancelstierre at a young age to be brought up by her uncle, Prince Orrofin. As a Princess of the Kingdom, Merabel had an honorary seat in the Ancelstierre Moot.

"Hello, dear," the woman beamed, adjusting large cut-crystal spectacles on her long nose. "Been a while, hasn't it? I would have visited the Kingdom, but you can't even think of all the frightful trouble one must go through to do so. Even Royal Blood isn't enough these days, can you imagine? And I had all of my bags packed and everything, and then the Moot passes some law or other preventing passage across the Wall without express permission of an Arbiter. An _Arbiter_! Of course, they're not too fond of me, are they? And would I ever ask one of _them_ for help? I think not!"

Farelle tried not to smile at her aunt's indignation. Merabel had always been a very odd woman, but she was family after all. With her enormous round spectacles, mismatched robes, and greying hair straggling out of an untidy bun, she looked anything but a Royal Princess.

A second grey-haired woman took the seat at Merabel's side, cutting off her furious tirade about the Arbiters. "Move over, cousin. Ah! Good morning, Princess Farelle," she said, putting aside her silver-topped walking stick. "I am glad to see you, although the circumstances today are less than ideal."

Princess Valochril was the only surviving daughter of Prince Orrofin, who had been the Chief Minister of Ancelstierre before Tralusan. Valochril had temporarily filled the position as Chief Minister in the period between her father's death and the recent election. The woman had lost a leg and two children to the plague that had swept through Corvere a couple of years ago.

"Have you met our new Chief Minister?" asked Valochril in a low voice, easing her wooden limb into a more comfortable position.

Farelle glanced across the Chamber to see Tralusan talking quietly to one of the Twelve Ministers as they glanced over at her father. Tralusan noticed her looking at him, and gave an ironic little smile, inclining his head a fraction. Farelle returned the gesture. "Yes," she answered Valochril. "He will be giving us a lot of trouble."

"Trouble!" Merabel snorted, polishing her spectacles furiously with a patchwork sleeve. "He's already given us enough trouble as it is. First he goes about denouncing the Wall as if it wasn't being built for Ancelstierre's own good! And then he goes on to say that the Bloodlines are enslaving the Shining Ones! Would you believe it! I declare that I did not believe a single word until I decided to actually attend the Moot, and then you would not _believe_ how shocked I was when–"

"The Moot will now come to order!" The Hereditary Arbiter's deep voice boomed throughout the room, and everything was silenced, including Merabel's chatter. Even the enormous brown dog was quiet. "The Chief Minister, the Most Honourable Gwilem Tralusan, will open the floor."

There was a great deal of whispering and shuffling of paper among the Chief Minister's entourage, before Tralusan got up to speak. "To begin with," he rumbled, voice effortlessly filling the room, "I would like to welcome King Dantalion and the rest of his delegation to the Moot. It is truly an honour of have them here today." There were some appreciative murmurs, and Farelle forced a gracious smile. She glanced over her shoulder, and saw that the two burly Lords looked angrier than before. "The first subject I would like to address concerns his majesty as well as the Moot." Tralusan snapped his blunt fingers, and an aide rapidly placed a sheet of parchment in his hand. "Our records show that we are paying a monthly sum to the Crown in excess of the requisite taxes agreed upon during the armistice after the Civil War. I cordially ask the King to explain this phenomenon."

"Of course," snorted Felio softly. "He _would_ begin with the money, wouldn't he?"

Dantalion arose from his seat, and that simple action quieted the angry mutterings of the Ancelstierre Moot. Farelle noticed the Twelve Ministers giving him dirty looks, and decided that she did not like them at all. "I will certainly provide an explanation," the King said pleasantly. "The extra sum has been paid before you by Princess Valochril, and before her by Prince Orrofin, and before him by Prince Jorranen. It is your half of the expense for building the Wall."

This pronouncement resulted in immediate uproar. Members of the Moot leapt to their feet shouting and shaking their fists, incensed that they were funding the _Wall_, of all things. It was absolute chaos. The big brown dog let out several booming barks, adding to the confusion. Papers were flying everywhere, and Farelle nearly blushed at some of the coarser insults that reached her ears. The soldiers drew around the delegation in a protective circle, and the Hereditary Arbiter achieved peace only after many minutes of banging an onyx paperweight on his desk.

Farelle exchanged a wry smile with Neryl as everybody sat down again. The Moot had only been in existence for a couple of generations, and was clearly in need of better organization. Bribery and intimidation were not unheard of within the Chamber. Neryl sighed. "And _these_ were the people running Ancelstierre?"

Tralusan stood up to speak with the Arbiter's permission. He looked furious, but majestically so. "I absolutely refuse to pay for the construction of the Wall!" he declared, earning roars of approval from the Moot.

When quiet reigned once more, Dantalion stood to make his reply. "You have no choice."

"The Moot will not be threatened!" bellowed one of the Ministers, looking nearly insane with his beet-red face and glaring eyes.

"Silence!" shouted the Arbiter, hypocritically pounding the desk with his paperweight. "Silence, the whole pack of you! The King must be allowed sufficient time for a proper response."

Dantalion inclined his head, and continued to speak at a more normal volume. "The Wall was originally petitioned by the Ancelstierran Moot itself to the King, in the fourth year of my father's reign. You will undoubtedly find it in your records." His eyes lingered on the jumbled stacks of paper littering the room. "The petition was approved, and contains the Royal Seal. I am sure you are aware that only the monarch of the Kingdom has the power to overrule such a document." There were some angry murmurs, but nothing to be worried about. Farelle watched in satisfaction as Tralusan had a hurried discussion with his advisors. Take that!

The Hereditary Arbiter nodded his grey head. "I will allow it. Unless concrete proof that no such agreement took place comes to light, the Moot will continue to finance the building of the Wall. The matter is closed." He rolled up the sleeves of his saffron robes, as if preparing for battle. "King Dantalion may introduce the next issue."

Farelle's father exchanged a few words with General Paleon, before speaking. "Honourable members of the Moot, recently the Chief Minister has been making public statements against the Kingdom's Bloodlines, statements which are unfounded."

Uproar broke out again, and Farelle wondered how the Moot ever got anything done. She did not envy the Hereditary Arbiter his job; he made even being a Crown Princess look easy. Farelle contented herself with watching her father grow progressively more and more irate as the people continued to argue. Any time now…

"QUIET!"

Silence abruptly fell, as if a muffling blanket had been thrown over every sound. Farelle knew that Dyrim's powers flowed in her father's veins, as they did in hers – powers to still tongues that moved too freely, among other things. This was not the same as using Charter Magic; it was something deeper, something innate. She was sure her father had not actually _meant_ to exercise his power over these people, but with the powers of a Bright Shiner concentrated in your blood, things like this tended to happen.

The first person to gain the power of speech was, regrettably, the nutty red-faced Minister. "What is this devilry!" he spluttered. "You dare use magic over us?"

"Of course not," Felio scoffed. "We are too far south to access the Charter." But hardly anyone heard him over the clamour as panicked members of the Moot started to regain their voices, and express their hysteria.

This time when the Arbiter called for order it was in vain. Tralusan's supporters swarmed over to their side of the Chamber while those loyal to the Kingdom stood to meet them. As fighting broke out, the soldiers pushed Farelle practically on top of Neryl and banded together to form a tight ring around the Kingdom delegation. As they could not use Charter magic, the soldiers warded away threatening individuals with the blunt ends of their spears. Farelle's hand spontaneously gripped the long dagger she wore at her side, although she knew that drawing steel within the Inner Chamber would be taken as an open declaration of war. She watched Princess Valochril whack a member of the Moot about the shins with her walking-stick when he jostled her. There was a yell of pain as the large brown dog bit someone. It was absolute mayhem.

Farelle's gaze alighted on a young woman pushing her way towards them through the skirmishing crowd. The Princess recognized her as one of the Arbiter's scribes. "Message!" she was crying. "Message from the Arbiter!"

"Let her through!" Farelle ordered, and the guards obediently divided. A short clerk managed to slip past them, and the Crown Princess stomped on his foot, getting mud all over his expensive doeskin boots. The Captain hauled him away as he shrieked with outrage, and the line of soldiers closed behind the scribe like a scarlet and gold sea.

The scribe was panting, cheeks rosy from exertion, hair tousled from having fought through a crowd of bickering politicians. "What is your name?" asked Farelle, aware that niceties must be observed even in the midst of an all-out brawl.

"Amaya, milady," the young woman panted. "Scribe to the Hereditary Arbiter. I have a message for you."

Farelle nodded in what she hoped was an imperial fashion. "Father!" she called over her shoulder. "You should listen to this." The scribe cringed under the combined gazes of King Dantalion, Crown Princess Farelle, the Voice of the Clayr, a Master Wallmaker, and the General of the Army. Farelle realized that such a situation must be thoroughly intimidating, and gave an encouraging smile. "Go on, Amaya."

"Th- the Arbiter w- w- wishes the delegation to w- withdraw into one of the Lower Chambers," stammered Amaya, knees knocking. "You will have a p- private conference with the Hereditary Arbiter, the Chief Minister, and the Twelve Ministers."

Farelle, her father, Neryl, Felio, and General Paleon exchanged glances. Behind them, the soldiers' Captain shoved away one of the large mean-looking Lords, and was promptly head-butted by the other. Things were starting to get ugly. It was time to leave. "Which way?" demanded the King.

The Crown Princess hesitated, glancing at Valochril and Merabel, who were valiantly holding their own in the scuffle. Princess Merabel, who had the little clerk in a headlock, caught her eye. "Go on, dearie," she carolled. "We'll take care of these ragamuffins!"

Amidst the pandemonium and under the young scribe's direction, the delegation managed to make its way off the benches, and through one of the doors at the base of the room. The soldiers slammed them shut, and Farelle heaved a deep sigh of relief at having escaped. Amaya led them down a corridor and showed them into another room.

They walked through the door, and Farelle was aware that they looked as though they had just emerged from a small war. Her father managed to maintain a kingly expression, but had not noticed that his crown was hanging off one ear.

The Hereditary Arbiter was waiting for them, exceedingly dishevelled from the brawl in the Inner Chamber. The Ministers and their aides were also trickling in, some sporting ripped clothing and bloody noses. The last one to enter was Tralusan, surrounded by his staff. His black and silver tunic was in need of mending – Farelle hoped it would be expensive.

"All here?" asked the Arbiter unnecessarily, holding a small cloth to his bleeding lip. "Let's get started, then." Amaya settled unobtrusively into a corner, taking a crumpled sheet of parchment and a bent quill from her pockets. "The Moot has now officially reconvened," said the Arbiter, fussily straightening his saffron robes to regain some decorum. "King Dantalion will finish his opening remarks."

"I will make it simple," said Farelle's father, who was in no mood for chit-chat. He turned to look directly at Tralusan. "I want you to stop telling people that the Bloodlines have enslaved the Bright Shiners for their own means. It is simply not true."

"Really?' remarked Tralusan. He snapped his fingers, and a subservient assistant placed a paper in his hand. He hardly glanced at it, before saying, "My sources tell me that Lord Abhorsen himself – a man of doubtful character whom you hold in high esteem – has a Bright Shiner in his service, without pay. I do not know about the Kingdom, but in Ancelstierre that is called slavery."

Farelle had only a moment to wonder how Tralusan got his information, before reflecting that the Chief Minister had his own contacts within the Kingdom, just as they had their own in Ancelstierre.

"That is different," said Dantalion, clearly frustrated. "The Bright Shiner in question was first defeated by the Seven, and what they do among their own is not for anyone to decide. The only way to keep him bound, as they so wished, was to constrain him in service to someone. Lord Abhorsen's father was kind enough to assume the responsibility." A few of the Ministers shook their heads with indulging little smiles, and Farelle could almost swear that General Paleon had to physically hold her father back from attacking them. His grip on her father's arm was remarkably firm, in any case.

"What about the Wall?" asked Tralusan, changing tack. "Upon completion, the lives of two Bright Shiners will be lost, correct?"

This time it was Felio who answered. "Yes," he said, "but those lives are volunteered."

The Chief Minister frowned. "Who are you? What authority do you have to speak?"

"He is Master Felio, personal assistant to the Wallmaker," said Dantalion angrily.

"The Wallmaker thought it beneath her to come herself?" croaked an aged Minister with long white hair.

The King gave the old man a look that clearly indicated what he thought of that Minister's brain power. "The Wallmaker is eighty-five years old," he said, very slowly and clearly. "And the trip to Corvere is long."

"Master Felio is accepted here as the Wallmaker's representative," said the Arbiter, making a note on the parchment in front of him. "Carry on."

"You know my views on the Wall," said Tralusan, crossing his arms over his barrel-like chest. "You cannot change my mind. I was elected because of my beliefs, which are the beliefs of the Ancelstierrans." Farelle resisted the temptation to point out that the "Ancelstierrans" he spoke of were the male nobility of the country, who were the only ones who could vote – and who knew how many of those votes had been bought, coerced, and threatened for?

"Perhaps we do not have to decide this just yet," said Felio. "The Wallmakers are casting preliminary spells on the stones as they build the Wall, but only when the last stone has been laid can the Bright Shiners put their powers into it. A few more years are needed until then, during which time the Wall can continue to be built without violating your beliefs, Chief Minister. Why not wait until then before voicing your decision on whether or not they are enslaved?"

All eyes turned to Tralusan, who was stroking his short black beard. His dark eyes glinted unpleasantly, and Farelle felt a nervous knot forming in her stomach. "In cases like these between Ancelstierran lords," the Chief Minister said, "they each choose a swordsman to fight for their cause. If Ancelstierre's champion wins, I will continue to denounce your actions. If your champion wins, I will keep quiet on the matter, reserving judgment until the day the Wall is completed, when I shall see the Bright Shiners for myself."

Farelle was shocked and angry. How could something so important be decided by single combat between two people? "Please give us a moment to discuss your proposition," said her father, hiding his own surprise rather well. The five members of the delegation gathered together at their end of the table.

"I do not like it," Felio said immediately. "He is using the law against us. We pulled up past documentation to thwart his attempts to stop payments for the Wall. Now he is bringing up an Ancelstierran custom to get his own way. He wouldn't do it if he wasn't sure that he would win."

Farelle's father turned to General Paleon, who said, "It is not too unreasonable, my King. We have many fine fighters. And it is a simpler solution than years of negotiation."

"I agree with the General," said Neryl decisively. "It does not truly matter whether we decide to argue or fight. In the first case, we will ask our greatest minds to come to the Moot and lay out the best arguments. In the latter, we will summon our greatest warriors to represent us. It is the same thing."

The King looked at Farelle, and she nodded slightly. He turned back to the Ministers. "I accept the challenge," he replied, "but we must be granted sufficient time to prepare."

Tralusan smiled, a sight that the Crown Princess did not enjoy in the least. "Three years from this day, I will contact you," he rumbled, and if he wasn't a complete Ancelstierran, Farelle would have said that there was prophecy in his voice. "Until then, I will not take immediate action. I wish to concentrate on my projects concerning science and technology first, and set up academies in the larger towns. I will be busy, and you can count upon my silence."

It took only moments for Amaya the scribe to pen a document. Tralusan and Dantalion signed their names to it, adding their seals, and it was witnessed by the Hereditary Arbiter. "The rest of the Moot must be notified of the decision," he announced, looking with some trepidation back in the direction of the Inner Chamber, which they had left in uproar. "You are all hereby dismissed from the Moot. Er – you might like to leave through one of Moot Hall's side doors."

For her part, Princess Farelle sat motionless in her chair, reflecting on the turn of events. Tralusan would finally stop his verbal attacks on the Bloodlines. But in exchange, his future conduct and thus the actions of all people Anti-Wall would be decided in three years' time, with single combat between two people not at all associated with the original argument. She sighed, and started to get to her feet, before stopping dead: Her husband Javen was one of the best swordsmen in the Kingdom.

_A/N: Rainstorm Amaya Arianrhod, I hope you enjoyed your little honourable mention. I did not bother doing an anagram, because your pen name is simply too long, and "Amaya" was a good name already. May you pen many important documents!_

_If I'm frustrating you guys with my erratic posting schedule, then you can look on my profile page under my "Favourites" for a few good Garth Nix fics. A new-ish one that looks quite interesting is _Abhorsen's Duty_ by Dante Inferno. It deserves more reviews, so go check it out!_


	40. Holehallow

_A/N: First of all, oceans of thanks to faithful reviewers Amaya the scribe, Lady the co-member of Piccamop, pubkeeper Villana Bane, and reading-at-work kirdane! And a big warm welcome to new reviewers ab sab and Aelan Greenleaf. You are all Very Cool People, with capitalization!_

_I started out writing this chapter determined to make it shorter than previous ones, but it ended up being the longest I have ever written. Funny how it works out like that… 2 years have passed since the fiasco in the Moot. We'll leave off politics and get to see a bit of action, for a change. I hope you enjoy this one!_

_This chapter is dedicated to LimeJuiceTub and Violinboy, who both suggested that I explore Holehallow. It's all their fault!_

**Holehallow**

Captain Javen of the Royal Guard was having a hard time maintaining a mournful expression as he tried to look in all directions at once. Some people did not appreciate just how difficult his job was. He was required to guard the Royal Family at all times, _and_ act appropriately while doing it. Standing straight and showing no emotion whatsoever that particular morning had proved more challenging than any other time in his recent memory, for after the requisite seven years of mourning, the late King Berillan's body had finally been interred in Holehallow.

The procession had started in the Watchwood and proceeded down the large staircase. Black-clad mourners had carried the body on a bier, and placed it inside the ship bearing a figurehead carved in the King's likeness, wielding sword and scroll. The funerary ships with their black sails were an enduring tradition from an older time, when the country had first been colonized by a great seafaring people. Personally, Javen would be quite satisfied with a normal grave, but you couldn't argue with tradition. After the body had been interred, Head Charter Mage Girvase had managed to complete the ceremony without too many breaks in his voice, and finally Lord Cassiel Abhorsen had placed protective spells around the ship – spells of a final death which would prevent the beloved King from being raised by necromancers.

The ceremony was now complete, and most of the guests were returning to the surface. A celebration of King Berillan's life was to be held in the Watchwood, and the prospect of food and drink out in the summer sun was tempting. But Javen's duties were far from over. The King, Prince, and Princesses were staying behind for a private moment in front of Berillan's funerary ship. Queen Penemue had graciously volunteered to go above to start the festivities, giving her husband and children a chance to properly grieve. Even Andromis' darling Lady Charsia was temporarily detaching herself from the Prince's hip to leave him with his grandfather.

Javen beckoned one of his officers to his side. "Lieutenant Warrel," he said as quietly as he could, "take a contingent of guardsmen with the Queen. The Wallmaker and the visiting Clayr are going up above too, and I put them in your charge. And keep an eye on Lady Charsia – the Prince would be most upset if anything happened to her." The Lieutenant saluted smartly and gathered his men.

The members of the Royal Guard were all young noblemen, mostly the younger sons of Lords. Every one of them was a powerful Charter Mage, and armed with either spear or sword. Although they were considered elite, Javen was still on edge whenever the safety of the Royal Family was at risk, and he especially did not like situations like these when they were all gathered together in one place. In his opinion, it was the perfect target for any Anti-Wall extremists.

Javen noticed that the Abhorsen had stayed behind with his strange dwarf servant, and that gave him some solace; he knew Cassiel to be an excellent fighter.

"Captain?" A guardsman had stopped in front of him to report. "Sir, Lieutenant Staunis wishes to alert you to the fact that there has been a breach in our defences. Somebody destroyed the wards on the doors during the ceremony. They went undetected."

The Captain quietly dismissed the guard as his mind worked overtime. Only people with unsullied Charter Marks could pass through those doors unscathed, but if somebody had destroyed the wards… He scanned the Lords and Ladies who were heading up the wide staircase. It must have been a powerful Charter Mage to break those wards without being caught.

A suspicious-looking couple caught his attention. They were standing by the door with an enormous retinue of liveried servants, and had made no move to follow the crowd outside. With a gesture, Javen summoned Lieutenant Oscaer to his side. "Take a few guards and check on that couple by the door," he whispered. The Lieutenant saluted, and Javen approached the King. He was rather afraid of the man, but it was part of the job to speak to him from time to time. "Your Majesty," he said quietly, not waiting to be acknowledged. "You may be in grave danger. I recommend that you leave this place immediately for a more secure location."

King Dantalion turned to the younger man, who received the brunt of an indignant glare. Javen was aware that interrupting somebody who was mourning his father was very rude, but the Royal Family's safety was paramount. "Thank you for your concern, Captain," said the King irritably. "I trust that you and the rest of the Royal Guard will take care of the situation." He turned back to the funerary ship.

Javen resisted the urge to glare, and instead cast a pleading glance at his wife. She took the hint. "Father," she said in a low voice, "surely Javen knows what he's talking about. Shouldn't we listen to him, just in case? He would not ask us to move if he did not think it necessary."

The King remained stubbornly silent. Cassiel and his dwarf moved closer, instinctively drawn by the signs of quiet conflict.

"He's right, I remember now," said Princess Sitri, startling them all. She looked as if she were just awakening from a daydream. "We should listen to him," insisted the Clayr with sudden resolve.

Even the King was not one to argue with a Seer. With a reluctant sigh, King Dantalion nodded his permission, and Javen signalled the guards. They surrounded the King and his children protectively, and Javen led the way to the staircase, striving for an appearance of calm.

By this time, most of the people had left to join in the festivities aboveground. Javen could see Lieutenant Oscaer and his men speaking with the suspicious couple, and hesitated. He did not want to lead the King past them while they remained. Lieutenant Staunis joined him, shooting his Captain curious glances but asking no questions.

Suddenly, one of the couple's liveried servants shoved at a guardsman, and the others revealed weapons that they had hidden under their cloaks. Somebody cast a spell, and a chunk of the wall was blasted apart, showering everyone with dust and bits of rock. A lady screamed, and Javen fanned at the dirt-filled air in front of him, trying to get his bearings. Guardsmen in their red and gold started to materialize out of the greyish haze.

"Oscaer!" he shouted, coughing as he inhaled a mouthful of dust. "Hold the staircase! Staunis, you're with me!" He received muffled calls of assent, before organizing his men into a ring encircling the Royal family. Among them he could see the blue of the Abhorsen's surcoat, and a white patch that had to be his dwarf. Rubbing grit from his eyes as he ran, Javen led the way to a side door and cast the spell of opening.

They barrelled through into instantly clearer air, and Javen did a quick head-count. Lieutenant Staunis and all of his men were there, as well as the four members of the Royal family, Lord Abhorsen, and his short servant. "Staunis, close the door," he ordered.

"Will it keep them out?" asked Farelle. She looked remarkably calm, although Javen noticed that her eyes were wider than usual.

"I'm afraid not," said Javen. "One of them at least is a powerful Charter Mage. We will have to go deeper into Holehallow." He ignored the shocked expressions on the faces of his charges, and set about organizing the men. "Staunis, take rearguard with the Abhorsen. I'll take point."

As the Captain of the Royal Guard, Javen knew every trap and pitfall scattered through the sprawling network of tunnels and sinkholes known as Holehallow. A member of the First Bloodline could pass through most of them unscathed, but Javen had his men and the Abhorsen to think of, too.

He led them down the tunnel, and into another, much smaller sinkhole than the burial ground. Javen felt a ghostly touch on his Charter Mark, and just spotted two guard sendings fading into the stone.

There were three tunnels leading away from this chamber, and he took the middle one. They emerged in an even smaller sinkhole than the last, which was almost completely comprised of a spring. Javen removed the spells from each cross-hatched stepping-stone as he made his way across. Some of these spells were quite cruel, and promised walls of flame, poisonous barbs, and bottomless pits should any perceived trespasser try to go by. Holehallow had been crafted a long time ago by the original Kings, and protective spells had been woven about and into the very earth. They were savage spells remnant of an earlier time, but they were spells of the Charter, and Javen knew the keys.

They finally entered another enormous sinkhole of unworked bedrock, which stretched nearly a mile across. It was sealed from the open sky by a gleaming net identical to the one that protected Berillan's burial ground. Javen knew that this place was destined to house the funerary ships of future Kings and Queens – if he managed to keep the Royal line intact, of course. There were seven of these large chambers in total, and so far two of them contained ships.

They passed through in almost reverential silence, skirting a little bubbling pool of water, their clothing getting caught on thorns and brambles. Javen led the way unerringly to a narrow spiralling staircase, but paused at the doorway. He could hear noises coming from the far end of the sinkhole. Their attackers had managed to break through, and had nearly caught up.

"Staunis," he said quietly, "pick five men to hold the doorway." Javen wouldn't admit it aloud, but he was relieved that he could delegate such unpleasant tasks to somebody else. Without waiting to see which men his Lieutenant chose, Javen turned and started up the staircase, whispering spells and wards non-stop under his breath. These were deadly, subtle protections that required much of his concentration.

After many minutes of this, he spared a fleeting glance over his shoulder, and Farelle gave him an encouraging smile. The King's expression was unreadable, but the older man looked quite tense. Javen supposed it was the combination of being chased by a group of homicidal lunatics, and the fact that the staircase was making everyone claustrophobic.

From behind him, Javen heard Staunis reporting that their pursuers were on the staircase. He stopped still, and one of the guards ran into him. Despite the calm tone of voice with which this message had been delivered, an invisible wave of fear seemed to ripple through everyone. Even the Abhorsen's dwarf looked uneasy.

Javen came to his senses and squeezed past the guards and the Royal family until he reached the back of the group, having managed not to tread on too many people's toes. "Staunis, do you remember the wards protecting this place?" At his Lieutenant's nod, Javen continued: "Good. Take half of the guard and lead the way up the stair." Staunis looked like he was about to argue, but Javen fixed him with a firm glare, and his subordinate bowed his head in submission.

Javen looked back at his wife. Farelle's lips were parted as if she wanted to say something, but she merely shook her head sadly. Javen watched her until she was out of sight before turning away.

He was quite surprised to see that Cassiel had stayed behind as well. The Abhorsen nodded affably, and gave a tight smile. "Good day for a fight." The albino dwarf rolled his green eyes, but Javen was much too nervous to say anything. The remaining guardsmen had moved themselves into battle formation on the narrow staircase, and now they could do nothing but wait, and hope that the spells defending the steps killed enough of their attackers to afford them an even chance.

The tramp of feet on the stone steps soon came to their ears, and Javen drew his sword. "Try to take them alive," he ordered as the guards copied his action, "but your own lives are your main concern. You are members of the Royal Guard. May you fight well."

As the footsteps drew closer, an irritable voice asked, "Will you loose my collar?"

Javen glanced down to see the Abhorsen's servant glaring at his master. Cassiel grinned and shook his head in refusal, and the dwarf muttered something about it not being his fault that he didn't want to face an enemy in such a ridiculous form. Javen decided not to ask, and adjusted his grip on the sword. His palms were sweaty. Glancing at the blade, he did not see his own reflection, but rather the image of a figure in black armour. He had no time to wonder, before the enemy attacked.

They came charging around the bend of the staircase – straight into the front rank of guardsmen. The Royal Guard retreated in concert, giving the foremost men room to fight. As the men crammed shoulder-to-shoulder in the first row engaged in hand-to-hand combat, the guards behind them cast spells that had been flickering ready at their fingertips. Javen caught sight of the Abhorsen wielding his sword, and beside him the white dwarf slashing at an attacker's legs with sharp nails. Several of the attackers were bowled over, some sustaining quite serious injuries.

All of their attackers bore the Mark, which had allowed them to pass so far through Holehallow unscathed. Javen could not count them all, as their numbers stretched beyond the bend in the stair, but the young Captain hoped that most of them had been struck dead by the wards. However, Javen had been right about there being at least one powerful Charter Mage among them.

"Captain!" a guardsman shouted in warning. Javen glanced up to see several orange fireballs being lobbed through the air, and managed to cast a protective shield just in time. The fireballs struck the shield and dissipated, and his legs trembled at every blow. Maintaining the shield was draining his energy, but crowded such as they were upon the stairs left them open to air attacks.

"Retreat!" he called, sweat coursing down his forehead. "Controlled retreat – now!" The guards stepped back in perfect rhythm, just as they had been trained. Javen nearly stumbled on a step and the Abhorsen caught his arm. The Captain felt power flowing into him from the other man, and he was able to keep his feet and maintain the shield until they reached a landing.

Javen acknowledged the Abhorsen's help with a brief nod before throwing himself back into the battle. Now that they were on a level surface, the guardsmen held the high ground and were able to rain spells down on their attackers, who were spread over the steps below. "Three ranks, alternating sallies," ordered Javen, and the men stepped into formation. Under the constant barrage, the attackers retreated around the staircase until they were out of sight, and the guards paused to catch their breath.

"Steady," murmured Javen. He did not know what the attackers were planning, but he knew that they would not give up that easily. The silence stretched, but none of the guards had relaxed one bit.

Suddenly, a ball of blue flames came hurling around the corner, bouncing erratically off the narrow stone walls. Someone threw up a shield just in time, but the first ball of flames was followed by another, and then many more. They burned with an intense light, making them impossible to look at directly, and each individual shield could take only one or two hits before disintegrating.

"Charter, what _is_ that stuff?" one of the guards panted, his shield having just been shattered to pieces.

Javen shook his head, unable to answer. "Who's the most powerful Charter Mage here?" he asked. When everyone stared at him, he realized how foolish the question had been. "Of course, Lord Abhorsen," he said, face flushing with embarrassment. "Could you stay at the back with me here, please?" He turned to his men. "I want seven guards to make a joint shield with the strongest as the caster. That would be Delvon, wouldn't it? Get to it."

The remaining guards maintained their individual shields as the seven men moved into position. At Javen's signal, six of the guards placed their hands on Delvon's back. The caster threw up his hands, and a wall of faintly greenish light flashed up before them, blocking the entire staircase. The guards all gathered behind Delvon, nervously fingering their weapons as they watched the fireballs strike against the shield, making it quiver.

Javen drew Cassiel up onto the stairs above the landing. "Lord Abhorsen," he said hurriedly, "I need a good spell that can go around corners."

The dark-haired man frowned. "Anything that I cast will break your shield."

Javen shrugged. "Then it will have to be big enough – and fast enough – that it doesn't matter." He glanced at the six mages around Delvon, and saw that a few of them had fallen to their knees, but were maintaining contact. "Better make it quick," he added.

Cassiel Abhorsen gave him a disbelieving stare, but Javen had already descended back onto the landing. The seven mages were all showing acute signs of strain; those who had not fallen over were now leaning against the walls. Only Delvon was standing straight, although his knees were shaking.

The shield began to flicker and a stray fireball got through. Nobody was hit, but Javen knew that they had very little time left. He leaned forward and placed his own hand on Delvon's shoulder, allowing a gush of power to flow out of him and into the Mage. Around him, the rest of the guards crowded close. Javen wondered idly what they must look like, a bunch of grown men crammed together on a narrow staircase, all straining to make contact with Delvon, even going so far as to lie on the ground to touch his ankle with a finger.

Javen's concentration started to falter, when the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. There was a great whoosh of air overhead and something huge and bright crashed through the shield. The guards toppled over, released from the spell, and Javen looked up in time to see a great wash of white light circling the corner of the stairwell, absorbing the blue fireballs as it went along. He could hear cries of shock from the attackers, and smiled with grim satisfaction.

Without allowing himself any rest, Javen pulled himself to his feet, placing a hand against the wall for support. All of his guards were in similar shape, and beside him Delvon muttered, "If that didn't work I don't know what we'll do." Javen glanced back at the Abhorsen who looked just as weary as he felt, and silently agreed.

The young Captain's heart sank when he heard movement from around the corner. He took a deep breath, and raised his sword. "Well, men," he said bravely, "this is it. May you fight well." The guardsmen held their weapons at the ready, some still unable to stand.

"_Now_ will you loose my collar?"

Javen turned, and made eye contact with the Abhorsen. Cassiel was looking very uncertain, and Javen knew that for the first time he was seriously considering his servant's offer. "What will happen if you do?" he asked.

Lord Abhorsen gestured helplessly. "He will take his Free Magic form. No telling what he'll do after that."

The Captain looked down at the dwarf, who was watching him with a hungry expression in his sharp green eyes. They were fast running out of options. Finally, he shrugged. "Well, I guess if you must–"

"Captain!"

Javen whirled around, but none of his guards had spoken. He suddenly recognized the voice that had called him and felt an enormous grin split his face. "Lieutenant Oscaer!" he shouted back. "Come on up – and mind the attackers on the steps."

There was some scattered laughter, and around the corner of the staircase came his Lieutenant leading a contingent of guards. Oscaer was smiling broadly and came to attention in front of Javen amidst the good-humoured chatter of the men. "Sir. We tried to hold the main staircase as you ordered, but we couldn't see in the dust and most of them got through. We managed to apprehend five of the men who had been disguised as servants. I've ordered an investigation to find out who let the attackers into the Watchwood. We believe that some of the guards were bribed, and suspects have already been apprehended. After securing the doorway we followed your trail, releasing the attackers that had been caught by protective spells along the way. Many of them were dead, but some we took alive. We had to shift the bodies all along the stairs to get by, and just managed to make it this far now."

"And good timing, too," admitted Javen. "What of the two leaders?"

"The Lord and Lady are lying on the steps a few feet away, quite dead sir."

The Captain made a quick assessment of his remaining forces. "Oscaer, you stay here with your men and secure the prisoners. Look to the ones on the steps. I'm not sure if whatever the Abhorsen cast was lethal, but they might be waking up any time." He was barely able to return the Lieutenant's salute; his arm felt like it weighed twice as much as usual.

Javen noticed that he was still holding his sword and sheathed it, turning to mount the steps. His guards followed doggedly at his heels, the Abhorsen and his dwarf among them. Removing the few protective spells that remained in their path, they eventually reached the large chamber at the top of the staircase.

Lieutenant Staunis brandished his sword before realizing who it was. The King raised his eyebrows at their appearance, but Javen did not have any time for that. "Prince Andromis, could you lend me a hand?" he called, crossing to the double doors of metal-studded wood. "On the count of three." Together they pushed the doors open.

It was like entering another world. Darkness was starting to fall outside, but they could hear distant music, singing, and laughter. The festivities were well underway in the Watchwood, a celebration of King Berillan's life. Every person froze to take in the moment. Javen caught Farelle's eye and they both smiled. Princess Sitri sniffed and wiped her eyes. The Abhorsen's servant peered around Javen's legs, and hissed softly.

"Well," said Javen eventually, breaking the spell. "We'd better move along."

They emerged into a clearing among the pines, and Javen heard quick steps behind them. He ignored his fatigue and half-drew his sword, only to recognize two guardsmen. "Sir," one of them panted, "Lieutenant Oscaer sends you this." The other guard handed Javen a heavy pendant on a chain. It was a cheap pewter copy of the gold medallion worn by the Chief Minister of Ancelstierre.

Javen knew that Tralusan's more extreme supporters had adopted it as their symbol. He thanked the guards, and showed the object to King Dantalion. The King frowned as he examined it, his children crowding closer for a look.

"Were they hired by Tralusan, do you think?" wondered Prince Andromis.

The King shook his head. "I doubt it. They were probably acting on their own, under the impression that they could set the Shining Ones free by killing the Bloodlines, or some such nonsense."

"Who were they?" murmured Princess Sitri, her blue eyes huge.

"Kingdom citizens," said Javen. "They had the Mark," he explained at their questioning stares, "and they were led by a man and woman of noble lineage. The others were disguised as their servants. The Lord and Lady were almost certainly members of the Anti-Wall network on this side of the Wall."

Farelle frowned. "I know that noble families have been secretly funding these groups and offering them protection – but to actively participate in an attack?"

"I guess these were extremists who were willing to take the chance," said Andromis, looking at the medallion with disgust.

The King fixed Javen with a stern glare. "Well, what has been done about it, Captain?"

The young man straightened unconsciously. "It appears that some of the guards were bribed to let the attackers into the Watchwood. An investigation is underway, and suspects have been apprehended. We have secured prisoners amongst the attackers, but several of them were killed by Holehallow's protective spells, as well as during our defensive stand. These include the Lord and Lady who we believe were the leaders."

King Dantalion gave him an evaluating stare, and frowned. "You should have taken them alive." Javen felt the injustice of the comment coming from his King. Wasn't this the man who had ordered the execution of all of the Freemen and their accomplices? And the Lord and Lady had been killed in self-defence on the steps. What was he supposed to do – sacrifice his men? But he said nothing.

"Have the captives interrogated," said the King. "As for the guards who let them into the Watchwood, their Charter Marks are to be burned from their foreheads, their titles stripped from them, and their property seized. They are banished forever from Belisaere."

Javen saluted, and King Dantalion turned away. The group headed through the pine plantation towards the larger clearing and distant music, following the lanterns that winked in the summer evening gloom. Farelle dropped to the back of the group to walk with Javen and took his hand in hers. The Watchwood was heavily warded with magic, and Javen and Farelle paused beside a Charter Stone, allowing the rest of the group to draw ahead. The Captain placed his hand on the rough surface, letting the power fill him and wash away his weariness.

His wife watched with a little grin. "I am very proud of you."

Javen pulled a wry face. "But your father isn't." He removed his hand from the Stone, feeling less fatigue now and more of a drowsy quietness.

"The only thing he could find wrong with your actions was that the leaders had not been captured. And you couldn't help that." Javen did not reply, and Farelle placed her hands on her hips. "Since when did you care more about what my father thinks of you than your own wife?"

"Well, your father is the King," Javen pointed out cheekily. "But you're right," he added hastily. "You're right."

"Of course I am." The Crown Princess of the Kingdom stifled a grin, and regally held out her hand. The Captain of the Royal Guard grasped it, and pressed a fervent kiss to her fingers. Javen would have liked to have done more – much more, in fact – but if they remained alone in the darkness people would become suspicious, notably a certain young lady's father. They both knew that the King was having them watched on a regular basis. His Majesty would never admit to it, of course, but the odd courtier, servant, or solider faithful to the King would sometimes just "happen" to witness something between them, and Javen would be called in to be reprimanded. It had been made clear to him that at the first instance of gross impropriety, Javen would find himself locked away in a dungeon with the key at the bottom of the Sea of Saere. And that included public displays of inappropriate levels of affection with the Crown Princess.

They made their solitary way through the wood, guided by lanterns hanging from the pine trees. The paper lanterns contained radiant Charter Marks which cast a yellow glow over all. Farelle paused at the edge of the clearing, and Javen remarked how her brown hair turned to golden waves.

"I love you," he whispered, so low that not even the King's sharpest-eared spy could overhear him.

She smiled. "I know."

_A/N: Okay, we're back to putting explanatory notes at the end of the chapter! About my decision to make Holehallow many chambers: Sabriel counts only fourteen ships in the sinkhole where she finds Touchstone. This story takes place 2000 years before Sabriel, and the last King was 200 years before Sabriel, so there have been at least 1800 years of Kings and Queens. If each monarch ruled for about 30 years (Berillan ruled for 47, btw), there would be 60 ships. Divide that by fourteen, and we get at least four large chambers holding funerary ships. I made it seven to account for Kings and Queens before Berillan and after Touchstone._

_The second big sinkhole that Javen takes them to is where Sabriel found Touchstone. The sharp-eyed among you might have noticed the bubbling spring. Also, the staircase that they fight on is the staircase Touchstone leads Sabriel up, after which they emerge in a clearing in the Watchwood. Sabriel senses that people have died on the staircase, and they have in this chapter, at least. Also, what might have tickled your memory is Javen and Andromis pushing open the doors on the count of three, like Sabriel and Touchstone did. Mogget is there, so that may be where he got the idea from. And if you remember, Sabriel could hear music and singing when the doors opened, and Mogget said, "I can see time." Perhaps he is remembering this particular episode, when the doors opened and the sounds from King Berillan's commemorative celebration reached his ears._

_Reviews, as always, are most welcome!_


	41. The Great Library

_A/N: Oh. My. God. 201 reviews? 6313 hits? 40 chapters? I am absolutely overwhelmed. Thank you, thank you, thank you! Huge thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter- your reviews were awesome, every one of them._

_For all of you readers who have been missing the Clayr, this chapter is for you._

**The Great Library**

It was a long way down to the bottom of the Rift – but Sitri was not afraid. The two lower sides of the chasm were dotted with natural caves and ledges, and one of these contained the body of her grandmother Tirelle – but this did not perturb her. She was a Daughter of the Clayr, and she would See when her time had truly come. Certainly a Princess wasn't fated to perish by falling off the edge of the Rift!

The girl dangled her feet, watching the water thunder along the very bottom of the gorge, before turning away with an impatient sigh. She picked up the book lying beside her only to throw it back down again. Princess Sitri was feeling restless and nothing could distract her.

Ever since the attack in Holehallow, her families in the Palace _and_ the Glacier had been determined to keep her cooped up in the home of the Clayr. Usually the vast dwelling in the ice was enough for Sitri, but not having the option to even leave if she wanted to made living there extremely irksome. Even the books she carried around in the pockets of her black waistcoat held no more charms for her. She had brought a great many books from Belisaere, but she knew them all by heart now. The young Seer longed to return to the Palace and invade her family's private library for some fresh reading material.

Sitri drew Binder and examined the glittering blade. Her aunt Gressa wielded Nehima now, and so she was the bearer of the beautiful weapon – but even the spelled sword could not distract her for long. She peered at the shining metal, determined to See something in the reflection, but nothing appeared. It seemed that the fates had conspired to bore her to death that day.

"There you are."

The girl glanced up to see her aunt Neryl. The woman smiled, crinkling the corners of her eyes, and sat down gingerly beside her. "The Ratterlin," said Neryl, peering over the edge of the Rift. "The source of that river is in this very Glacier, you know. An old spring in the heart of the mountain, bubbling away in the dark. Have you heard the poem?"

Sitri shook her head, attempting to look interested. She usually liked poetry, but it held no charms for her today.

Neryl closed her eyes and recited:

"_Swift river born in the deepest night,_

_Rushing forth to catch the light._

_Deep ice and dark its swaddling cloth,_

_The Kingdom's foes will feel its wroth._

_It surges south through wood and plain,_

_Eats the earth and drinks the rain,_

_Till mighty Ratterlin spends its strength,_

_In the Delta at full length_."

"That's lovely," said Sitri, and winced at how unconvincing she sounded.

"You don't want to be here."

The statement caught Sitri by surprise, and she was on the point of denying it before she realized how useless that would be. Neryl was the Voice of the Clayr, after all. The Princess gave a reluctant nod, shoving her hands deep into the pockets of her waistcoat.

"I'm sure you understand that the Kingdom is in a precarious position right now," said Neryl. "Your father and the Chief Minister are at odds about many things, and the violence is escalating. The King does not need the additional worry of the safety of his youngest daughter. And the Glacier is a safe place, away from the politics and the people."

Sitri nodded, but did not reply. In truth she just wanted to be left alone in the dark to sulk. She was nineteen and knew that she was acting like a child, but she couldn't help it.

Her aunt Neryl glanced about as if searching for a new topic of conversation, and her eyes fell on the book that Sitri had so callously thrown aside. "Penemue told me that you were always fond of reading," she remarked, taking up the volume. "She said that even as a little girl, you always had your nose buried in one of these books." She examined the embossed leather cover, turning it over in her wrinkled hands. When she spoke again, it was with an air of deliberate casualness that caught Sitri's attention at once: "Have you been having any new visions of late?"

The Princess bit her lip. She had, actually. For the past month she had been plagued by brief images of fire, but had neglected to tell the rest of the Clayr. She admitted as much to her aunt, who was still scrutinizing her book. "Why did you not tell us?" asked the Voice of the Clayr.

Sitri shrugged. "I thought one of you would have Seen it, too. I mean, you all have the power of Mosrael, and the only Charter in my blood is through my father's line. Your Sight is stronger than mine."

"Perhaps," murmured Neryl. "But none of us Saw what you have Seen. It is because of your blood, Sitri, that you are attuned to different things than the rest of the Clayr. Belisaere, for example."

"Belisaere!" The Princess felt a surge of panic. Had the palace burned? Were her parents and sister safe? "What happened?"

The Voice of the Clayr regarded her for a moment, before returning the book. "Come to the Library."

"But my family–"

"Is perfectly safe. Nothing has happened to them, I assure you. But I want you to come with me to see the Great Library."

Sitri had seen the Library many times before, and had read all of the books there too. There weren't that many, after all. Sitri had always supposed that future generations would be the ones to fill the shelves and rooms, and right now the Library was quite a boring place. Stifling a sigh, the young Princess got up and followed her aunt.

Once they reached the doors to the Main Reading Room, Sitri was surprised at the amount of noise coming from within. Neryl smiled at her and opened the doors wide, and the Princess gasped. Aunts and cousins were bustling to and fro within the large domed room, navigating their way through boxes and boxes of books, scrolls, tablets, tomes, and curious objects. It was absolute chaos. Aunt Saranim was chasing a large frilled lizard that had escaped from its cage. Her cousins Isodell, Maidi, and Lareth were jumping up and down on the desks, trying to seize an ethereal dress that was floating away. Aunt Gressa opened a book and received a faceful of dark purple smoke.

Without thinking, Sitri cast a powerful Charter spell and instantly everything froze. The lizard paused on the verge of escaping through a doorway, and the dress drifted down into the waiting arms of the three girls, docile once more. "Thanks, Sitri," coughed Gressa, snapping the book shut and waving her hands to disperse the purple smoke. "Thank goodness you're such a talented Charter Mage."

"What's going on in here?" Sitri asked the room at large.

Neryl's gesture took in the hundreds and hundreds of boxes stacked on the floors, desks, shelves, and sorting tables. "The Royal Library of Belisaere was recently burned, and this is what was salvaged. Many priceless volumes and artefacts were lost, but your parents decided to send those that survived to us for safekeeping."

Sitri had fond memories of the Royal Library. It was – or rather, had been – the largest library in the Kingdom, with many sections open to the public, and many more that were not. Madame Ophwin had been the Chief Librarian before retiring to a post as the palace Archivist. The old woman would often take her to the Royal Library, to the restricted rooms behind locked doors, and show her all sorts of rare books and fascinating objects. And now those very things were within this room, waiting to be rediscovered.

"Just look at this mess," said Saranim, stuffing the frilled lizard back into its cage. She planted her hands on her hips, and exchanged a glance with Neryl. They both gave mysterious smiles.

"What?" asked Sitri, putting down the telescope she had been examining.

The Voice of the Clayr drummed her fingers on the top of a desk. "Well," she said slowly, "there are so many books and items, and none of them are organized. We'll need somebody to sort them all out, to shelve and catalogue all the books, and perhaps make a few sendings to help them. You know – like a librarian."

The youngest Princess felt suddenly warm. "You mean me?" she gasped.

Gressa laughed. "Well, you're the obvious choice. You love books, you read absolutely anything and everything, and you're good at magic. A lot of these items are dangerous. Put that down, Isodell."

The Ranger's daughter sheepishly returned an ornate dagger to its wooden stand, and Maidi and Lareth snickered.

"Of course, you'll need a title," said Saranim, holding Sitri by the shoulders and peering into her face. "How about… Chief Librarian?" Sitri flushed with pride and happiness, shoving her hands deep into her waistcoat pockets and scuffing her toes.

"We had better get to work on this," Neryl was saying. "The Royal Library was full of all sorts of junk." The Clayr returned to sorting through the mountains of boxes.

For the next few hours, Sitri unearthed storybooks donated to the Great Library by citizens of the Kingdom, which had the original owners' names handwritten inside the covers. She sorted antique earthenware that had been dug up throughout history. She discovered preserved specimens of plants and animals in labelled jars and cases. And against a wall and separate from the Royal Library collections, she found wooden crates of objects made by the Wallmakers, which had been sent to the Clayr after being Seen.

"Ah yes, those," said Neryl, coming over to her. "We haven't opened them. The contents of those crates are to be used by future generations. Your grandmother Tirelle gave instructions that nobody was to open them other than the Chief Librarian. I suppose that's you now."

"Gressa, Neryl," said Saranim, shepherding Isodell, Maidi, and Lareth to the door. "We're due at the Watch."

The Voice of the Clayr nodded. "I'll leave you to get started, then," she said to Sitri. At the doorway she turned. "By the way, I suggest that you start with that crate over there." With a wink, the older woman swept out of the room.

Sitri looked after her aunt in confusion, then looked around the Main Reading Room. It would take months to sort all of this out. And here she sat, all alone in the middle of this spectacular mess. The new Chief Librarian crouched by the crate that her aunt Neryl had indicated. After the briefest hesitation, she whispered a spell of opening and lifted the lid.

Inside she found a book, a set of panpipes, and a mirror.

Sitri's vision suddenly blurred. She Saw a dark-haired girl her own age standing in a dim chamber, reaching for those objects. She caught a flicker of a strange, musical-sounding name, and knew it to be the girl's. Then it was gone, and Sitri was back in the Main Reading Room, kneeling over the crate. She wondered who the other girl was. She certainly had not looked like one of the Clayr.

The Princess peeked into the box again, and noticed a folded piece of paper, which she took up with trembling hands. It was a note. She skimmed it and sat back on the floor, leaning against the leg of a desk for support. The note had been written by her grandmother Tirelle many years ago, with directions to a hidden chamber, and instructions to place the objects in the crate inside that chamber. Tirelle had Seen that the objects would be needed in the future. According to the note, the very survival of the world depended upon them being found in the hidden chamber by a certain girl. Sitri glanced at the note again, detecting the Charter marks of secrecy and silence that would prevent the reader from divulging its contents to anyone.

She took a shuddering breath, and hugged her knees to her chest. According to the directions the chamber was at the bottom of the Rift, and getting to the room would involve passing over the river by way of a narrow bridge. Sitri scrunched her eyes shut. How could her grandmother do something like this to her? She was only nineteen! What if she were to slip on the bridge, and drop the book, mirror, and panpipes into the Ratterlin? Was she to bear the weight of the world's ensured existence on her shoulders?

Finally, Sitri opened her eyes. She did not have the right to complain. What about that dark-haired girl she had Seen, whose name she had heard? The burdens she would bear were nothing to Sitri's. The Princess hesitated for a moment, reflecting wryly that being the Chief Librarian was going to be harder than she had thought. She took a final glance at the note, before making her decision. The young woman tucked book, pipes, and mirror into a rucksack and slung it over her shoulder. She got to her feet and checked Binder in its sheath, before heading out of the Library holding the directions.

The path she took was complicated and winding, but sank lower and lower into the depths of the Glacier, following paths that nobody had tread since the Wallmakers had built them. Sitri muttered a spell, and a small ball of shivering light floated above her head, lighting her way along the dark and abandoned halls. Down she walked, down, down, down until she shivered with cold and stumbled on the rough-hewn floor of the stone passageway. "Charter, I must be at the centre of the world," she muttered, thrusting her left hand into her silken waistcoat pocket to keep warm.

The stone door blended into the wall so well that she nearly missed it. Upon examination of the Charter marks flowing over the surface, the Princess deduced that the door could only be opened once, and if closed would melt into the wall and cease to exist for ever. Reminding herself not to shut the door behind her, Sitri muttered the requisite Charter marks of opening. The door creaked an inch ajar, and Sitri gave it an impatient push and stepped forward – only to have her foot meet empty air. She screamed and windmilled her arms frantically, just managing to catch the sides of the doorway. Heart hammering in her throat, she stumbled back into the safety of the corridor, clutching the cold stone floor with trembling hands.

"I must be crazy," she muttered, pulse racing. She held up the note, deciphering Tirelle's spidery hand. There – the instructions said that she had to make a bridge herself down to a ledge in the Rift. She'd missed that part.

Taking a deep breath, Sitri pushed herself to her feet and walked to the doorway, stopping just shy of the edge and propping the door open with a chunk of ice. Heights did not scare her, although nearly falling to her death did. She scratched at the side of her nose, wondering how she was going to make a bridge. If only one of the Wallmakers were here! Cassiel Abhorsen had once shown her a shielding spell that could be fashioned into a bridge, but it was very taxing on the caster, and Sitri did not want to risk having her strength fail her when she was only halfway across. The bridge would need to be solid enough to bear her weight. Perhaps she could build one out of raw materials… The young woman looked around, before realizing how foolish that idea was. The only stuff she could see was stone and ice. Wait a minute…

Sitri grinned, and set about weaving a Charter spell. Shards of ice gathered before her, glimmering like a thousand crystals suspended in the air. They melded together, solidifying into a frozen bridge that arced gracefully to the stone ledge below. The Princess regarded her handiwork with deep satisfaction before setting off. Halfway across she slipped and just managed to regain her balance, letting out a stream of curses that she had once heard Captain Javen use and that her father would tan her hide for.

Once she reached the ledge Sitri brightened her Charter light, turned to the right, and headed along the path. It took her even lower into the earth as the Rift narrowed. Jagged stone walls closed in on either side, and still the path descended, leading her to cooler and damper realms. A rumbling sound came to her ears and the ground vibrated under her feet, and even before she came upon it Sitri knew that she was coming to the Ratterlin. Only this time, she was at the bottom of the Rift.

She paused, feeling the cool spray on her face, her ears full of the terrible roar of the river. Her path lay over a bridge which was frightening in its narrowness. There were no handrails to be seen, and the surface was slippery and treacherous. "Well," Sitri muttered to herself, unable to hear her own voice over the sound of the rushing water, "I've come this far. And I haven't Seen myself perish by falling off a bridge." Somewhat heartened by these thoughts, she threw off her boots, tied the rucksack to her belt, and knotted her skirts above the knee. Sitri, Daughter of the Clayr, Chief Librarian, and Princess of the Kingdom, gritted her teeth and set out over the bridge on all fours, hands finding purchase on the crosshatched stone. She was aware of how ridiculous she must look, but she had never been one for appearances anyway, much to Farelle's dismay. When she finally reached the other end and stood, her hands and knees were red and chafed.

Sitri unknotted her skirts, wiping her hands dry on them in the process, and reached out for the door. It opened at her touch. Her Charter light glided through before her and brightened, and she found herself standing in a large octagonal room. It was carpeted in blue, and the ceiling was painted to resemble the night sky with dark clouds swirling around seven bright stars. Sitri smiled, recognizing the seven stars as the representation of the seven original daughters of the Clayr. The walls, however, claimed most of her attention. They were covered in beautifully-worked tiles bearing golden stars, golden towers, and silver keys– the symbols of the Clayr, the Royal family, and the Abhorsen.

In the middle of the room stood a redwood table, and Sitri advanced towards it, toes sinking into the carpet. She carefully placed the book, panpipes, and mirror on the polished surface, shivering as she remembered her vision. The Princess wondered who the dark-haired girl was, and when she would enter this chamber. Probably not in Sitri's time. Perhaps not for centuries.

She took out Tirelle's letter to see what needed to be done next. According to the note, the protective spells in the chamber, and in the hidden passageways that led to it, would activate once she closed the door. Sitri could feel the spells prickling her senses. They hung around her like shadows, just waiting to be released. She shuddered when she realized that both Charter and Free Magic were at work in the room.

She slipped back out and closed the door. As soon as it was shut, she started at the magic that she felt sweeping through the room, and was relieved that there was a door between them. After making the treacherous return journey across the narrow bridge, Sitri retrieved her boots and followed the path down the Rift.

Upon reaching her ice bridge, Sitri looked at where the ledge carried on, and was rather tempted to follow it to see where it would lead. But she knew that the path was not for her. The protective spells had been awakened, and they would not let her pass. Instead, she walked up her bridge to the stone door in the wall of the Rift. To her intense relief the door had remained ajar, and she stepped through before melting away the bridge with a quick spell. Once closed, the Charter marks on the door melted away and dissipated into thin air. Sitri ran her hands over the cool stone; nobody would be able to detect that there had ever been a door there. And thanks to the spells of secrecy on the note, she could not speak of it.

The Princess read through the note again, satisfied that she had completed all of the tasks – all except one. She placed the note upon the ground and called up marks for fire. The thin piece of parchment burst into flame, curling up into ash and obliterating Tirelle's instructions forever. Sitri scattered the ashes with her foot, letting them mingle with the dust and grime. She paused, feeling suddenly weary, and leaned her forehead against the wall. "Good luck, Lirael," she whispered, "whoever you are."

_A/N: Many thanks to Ashandarei for asking about the Remembrancer's tools. I implied that the Wallmakers were making a bunch of stuff Seen by the Clayr, but I should have been clearer. Hence Sitri's little mission!_

_Sitri did not follow the path that Lirael did, because I don't think she would have been let by (it is 'Lirael's Path'). Instead, she took a sort of "short cut" to the ledge before the narrow bridge, a short cut which doesn't exist anymore. And the poem that Neryl recites to Sitri is the one that Kibeth tells Lirael. Kibeth thinks that she might have missed a line, and so the fifth and sixth lines of the poem are mine._


	42. The Scarlet Company

_A/N: Well, I've finally finished my final exams! The last one was English – throwing together an essay on Frankenstein, which isn't as fun as it sounds. Many thanks to ab sab, Amaya, Pied Flycatcher, kirdane, and noaith ahsmi for their great reviews, which is even more impressive during exam time._

_We've seen Farelle, we've seen Sitri… but what has the Prince of the Kingdom been up to? Another long chapter for you._

**The Scarlet Company**

Snow carpeted the forest floor, heaped in great drifts against the trunks of evergreens. Icicles twinkled cheerfully from bare grey branches. The faint calls of birds and the odd chatter of a squirrel broke the peaceful silence of a winter morning. Prince Andromis smiled, and breathed in the sharp cold air. It was moments like these that one lived for.

"Sir?"

The Prince sighed, and turned to see one of his soldiers. "What is it, Sholto?"

The large man knuckled his forehead respectfully. "Sir, the Cap'n says you ought ter send a message to the Regiment, seein' as we're leavin' soon an' all."

Andromis nodded. "Yes, I will. Thank you Sholto."

The man gave a gap-toothed grin and shuffled back to the group of men and horses, and the Prince stepped out further into the woods. He looked about to make sure that he was completely alone and would not be disturbed, before giving a piercing whistle. Seconds later a red-tailed hawk plummeted out of the sky, and alighted on his arm. With some difficulty, Andromis pulled a grubby piece of paper from his pocket and opened it one-handed. He placed his temple against the hawk's feathery head. "Message to Colonel Anselm, Twenty-Sixth Regiment. Scarlet Company nearly at village. Will investigate claims of attacks by thieves. Expect immediate resolution, and return by snowmelt." He sent the hawk on her way, and watched her fly out of sight before trudging back to the camp.

The Captain and the three other Lieutenants were sitting around a fire, enjoying their breakfast. Similar cooking fires were set up all through the clearing, and Andromis exchanged a few words with his men whenever he passed them. "Andromis!" one of the Lieutenants called. "Come over here and have a bite of this porridge."

The Prince perched on a rock and accepted the proffered bowl, grimacing at the lumpy mess. "Marrick been cooking again?"

Fourth Lieutenant Marrick shoved him good-humouredly. "Say what you want about my cooking. The Captain wouldn't let me bring my wife along to do the job."

"Andromis here, he doesn't need a wife," chortled First Lieutenant Braham. "He's in love with that daft hawk."

"Ruby is _not_ a daft hawk," the Prince replied with affrontery that was only half pretence. He was very fond of Ruby. "She is a lady, and one of the first hawks that the Head Charter Mage spelled from the egg to deliver messages."

"We all know about Girvase's experiments on broods of hawks and pigeons," said the Captain, chafing his hands together for warmth. "But your Ruby is the first to reach maturity. Are you certain that she will carry the message to the Colonel?"

"I have no doubt of it," insisted Andromis.

Marrick sniggered. "Love is blind, as they say." He couldn't duck quite fast enough to avoid a snowball in the face.

"Love would have to be blind for Lynet to marry you," the Prince retorted.

His friend shook snow from his hair and pretended to clutch his heart. "You wound me!"

Lieutenant Braham snorted. "Don't you worry, Marrick. Andromis will soon know the burden of marriage. He's got a girl at court, and a right beauty, too."

It was true. Andromis and Lady Charsia were the subject of much gossip at Belisaere. The Prince could barely stand his mother's rapturous plans concerning their future, or his sister's knowing smiles, or his father's teasing. Nothing official had been settled yet, but he was so attached to Charsia that it alarmed him sometimes. She was a lovely young woman, so accomplished and so admired, and the fact that she was extremely beautiful was an added benefit. Andromis absently stirred his breakfast, lost in pleasant thoughts about his intended.

The Captain got to his feet, having somehow finished his bowl of porridge. "Pack up soon – we move out within the hour."

The Scarlet Company of the Twenty-Sixth Regiment was made up of approximately sixty men, and Third Lieutenant Andromis commanded fourteen of them. He enjoyed being with his Company; the soldiers wore their red armbands with pride, and Hiram was a fair and experienced Captain. Fourth Lieutenant Marrick happened to be Andromis' best friend. The Prince's seniority was due to the fact that he had been accepted into the Regiment two months before Marrick, as an earlier birthday allowed him to take the Lieutenant's exam first.

The Twenty-Sixth Regiment was stationed near Estwael, and patrolled the far north and west territories of the Kingdom. Andromis knew that other Regiments were not so lucky. Some had stationed their Companies along the Wall to prevent the Wallmakers from being harassed by protesters. Although Tralusan had stopped his Anti-Wall speeches, the border was still a bad place to be. Andromis much preferred riding about on missions in the wilds of the Kingdom.

They were on such a mission right now. The mayor of a village in the far west had sent a message to the Regimental Outpost, reporting attacks by thieves. Many villagers had been hurt, despite their magic wards, which made the mayor suspect that the thieves were sorcerers or Charter Mages. And so it happened that the Scarlet Company had been deployed to deal with the situation.

It was snowing when they reached the village in the evening, yet Andromis could still see a large Manor house up on the hill which overlooked the village. Captain Hiram sent Lieutenant Marrick to the Manor House, but the youngest Lieutenant returned with the information that it was utterly deserted. Andromis had not been nervous before, but he was now.

The officers and soldiers dismounted, and led their horses through the cobblestone streets. All of the houses looked abandoned, open doorways waving eerily in the wind with creaking hinges, snow drifting in through broken windows. "Where is everybody?" Marrick whispered to Andromis, and the Prince could only shake his head.

"There!" called Lieutenant Braham, pointing down the street. Andromis squinted, and through the fat snowflakes could make out the yellow of a lighted window. When they drew closer, he could see that it was the village inn.

The Captain tried the door, but it was locked. He balled up a gloved hand and pounded on the unyielding wood. "This is Captain Hiram of the Scarlet Company! Open the door!"

There was a pause, then the sound of many bolts being undone before the door creaked open. "Good evenin', sir," said the man at the door. "The soldiers of the King are most welcome. I'm afraid there's not much room inside – the whole village is gathered in 'ere."

The Captain turned back to his men. "Lieutenant Braham, you stay here with Lieutenant Kien. Post the soldiers in a perimeter outside. Andromis, Marrick – you're with me."

The Prince stepped across the threshold, stomping snow from his boots and rubbing at his cold red nose. The innkeeper led them past tables crammed full of frightened-looking villagers, and over to a roaring fire. Serving maids put steaming mugs in their hands, and Andromis did not envy Braham and Kien's being outside one bit. Marrick poured something from a flask into his cup, and offered it to him: "Brandy?" The Prince shook his head. "You sure?" his friend pressed. "It's very good brandy." But Andromis was much too nervous to even think about touching drink.

Surveying the common room of the inn, Andromis noticed that most of the windows had been boarded up, and that all of the villagers held weapons of some sort, brandishing everything from proper swords to gardening tools. There were no children – he assumed that they were upstairs. From the look of it, the entire village had banded together at the inn to hold out against the thieves. Andromis thought them rather paranoid.

"Where is your Mayor?" Captain Hiram was asking the innkeeper.

"The Mayor?" the man repeated. "Oh, 'e's dead. A new mayor 'asn't been elected yet, what with the attacks an' all."

Hiram stroked his unshaven chin. "Very well. Where is your Lord, then? The one who lives in the Manor house up on the hill."

"Oh, 'im. Well, 'e's dead too."

Andromis could see that they were clearly not getting anywhere. Luckily for everyone present, the Captain was a patient man. "What about the village Charter Mage?" he asked. "Surely he hasn't died as well?"

"_She_ hasn't."

Andromis glanced up to see a woman with a bold nose and a mane of curly red hair coming down the stairs. "_I_ am the Charter Mage," she told them firmly. "My name is Zavebe. You've come to answer our call for help?"

"Yes we have," said Captain Hiram, putting down his mug. "What can you tell us about the attacks, Mistress Zavebe?"

In answer, the woman threw on a cloak and headed towards the door. The Captain raised his eyebrows, and Andromis reluctantly put down his drink to follow them out into the blowing snow.

"The thieves attack us every night," the woman told them, peering down the road. "They come from that direction. They have good weapons, and some of them must be able to do magic because every night they manage to breach the wards that I set up around the village." She gave them an evaluating stare. "I hope you're all good fighters."

Andromis and Marrick exchanged grins. She obviously had not heard of the Scarlet Company. They were a tight-knit group, and proud of their reputation, and of their colour – the colour of blood. Even when off-duty the officers tended to wear red. Members of the Scarlet Company were renowned warriors.

"There they come!" cried Mistress Zavebe, pointing through the snow. Andromis heard nothing, as the snow muffled all sound, but he managed to see a couple of dark shapes in the distance.

Captain Hiram wasted no time. "Lieutenants! Have your men set up a protective front. Mistress," he turned to the Charter Mage. "You had best get inside." Zavebe looked as if she was about to argue, but one look at the Captain's face convinced her otherwise.

Andromis directed his men to crouch in formation, shields overlapping. Behind them, Marrick's men were stringing their bows. The thieves obviously had not expected to encounter a full Company of well-trained soldiers, and pulled up short of the inn at the village square. A warning volley of arrows was sent over their heads, which succeeded in causing mass confusion, as some of the riders retreated while others pressed forward to attack.

The Prince saw his Captain drawing steel, and copied the gesture. His sword had been made for him by the palace Wallmaker herself, Master Eilune. "Use the flat of your blade," the Captain ordered, and Andromis relayed the message to his men. They faced the oncoming riders, weapons brandished and not moving an inch.

The fighting was chaotic and over quickly. Although the soldiers had been travelling through the wild for days, they had numbers and experience on their side. Andromis did not even have to use his sword, and soon the thieves were retreating in a disorganized mass of riders, men on foot, and riderless horses.

The soldiers broke out into cheers, and Andromis caught Marrick's eye and grinned. They had driven off the attackers almost effortlessly, nobody had been killed or even seriously wounded, and their job was done. The Prince could return to the Outpost and write a long-overdue letter to Lady Charsia. He watched the retreat with a satisfied smile.

But as the last thief was riding away, he turned and shot a final spell over his shoulder. The ground exploded under Andromis' feet, and he was thrown back into the wall of the inn.

"Sir!"

"Lieutenant!"

"Are you all right?"

Andromis opened his eyes to see the concerned faces of his men as they crowded around, and allowed them to help him to his feet. "I'm fine," he insisted, repeating the affirmation to Captain Hiram, who had hurried over.

"Very well," said the Captain, not bothering to hide his relief. Andromis could only imagine what his father would do to Hiram if anything happened to him. "Take three of your men around back, Lieutenant. See what you can find."

"Yes sir." Andromis looked quickly over his men, all of whom had hopeful expressions on their faces. "Sholto, Tancred, and Dagmar will come with me." Leading his chosen three soldiers, Andromis crept around to the back of the inn, keeping one hand on his sword and the other ready to sketch a Charter mark. He was bruised and dazed, but he forced his mind back to the situation at hand.

The back of the inn was deserted, and Andromis crouched down to examine the tracks left there by the thieves. From what he could see, they had not broken a single window or attempted to force the barricaded back door, which was very strange behaviour for thieves. He pointed this out to his men, who scratched their heads.

"Now why would dey do dat?" wondered stringy Dagmar, blowing his nose on his sleeve.

"Strange, if ye ask me," Tancred agreed. He passed a wrinkled hand over his face, trying to work out the problem. "Thieves don't attack wif horses an' magic – they sneak in the night. They're usually lone raggedy beggars, not bands of men wif swords."

"An' they didn' take nothin'," said Sholto, whistling through the gap in his teeth. "What d'you reckon, sir?" Three pairs of round eyes turned to the Prince.

"I don't know," Andromis admitted.

They made their way back around to the front of the inn, and Andromis informed the other officers of their findings. Captain Hiram frowned. "There is something suspicious about those thieves," he mused.

"Perhaps they're not really thieves," suggested First Lieutenant Braham. "The mayor could have been lying about that in his message to the Regiment."

"Well, he's dead now," Marrick pointed out, "so we can't very well ask him, can we?"

"Ask the Charter Mage," suggested Braham.

Captain Hiram nodded. "I think we will. Let's find out what those attackers really want. Andromis, come with me. The rest of you keep an eye out." Andromis followed the Captain into the inn, trying not to look too smug that he wasn't staying outside in the freezing cold with the other officers.

They found her playing Druque at a table with another villager. "Mistress Zavebe," said Hiram with tremendous civility, "my Lieutenant and I would like to ask you a few questions – privately."

The Mage gave them a curious look before nodding in compliance. She led them into a room that appeared to have been used for private dining parties, but was now full of old bits of furniture. Mistress Zavebe glanced at them before taking a seat on the windowsill. "What is it, gentlemen?"

Andromis closed the door as Captain Hiram sat at the dusty table. "Those men weren't thieves." The Prince tried not to smile. His Captain could be very direct sometimes. He leaned against the wall to watch the inevitable confrontation.

"And how did you come to that conclusion?" asked Mistress Zavebe, playing with a curl of red hair as she avoided eye contact.

"They were well-armed," Hiram ticked off on his fingers. "They were well-horsed. They did not appear to be in want. And they stole nothing. They could have pillaged the abandoned houses, but they didn't touch them. Obviously you are having a disagreement with this group, and we would like to know what is really going on."

"I believe that does not concern you," said the Mage coldly.

The Captain crossed his arms. "You called us here because you said you were the victims of thieves. The King's soldiers will _not_ be used to achieve someone's personal ends! If you would have us defend you from an enemy, then tell us what truly warrants their attack."

Zavebe tossed her head, rather like a stubborn chestnut mare. "And if I choose not to?"

Andromis chose that moment to speak. "We could have you arrested, Mistress."

The woman looked furious, and Andromis knew that she would have dearly loved to cast a spell and burn him to a crisp then and there. "You wouldn't _dare_!"

Captain Hiram smiled mirthlessly. "My Lieutenant was merely stating the facts. The mayor is not here to answer for his actions, and neither is the Lord. As the village Charter Mage, you are obligated to explain the situation in their stead."

The woman frowned, but apparently came to a decision. "Very well," she sniffed, looking down her beaky nose. "You are correct. Those men are not thieves. They were sent by Lord Deachan of the neighbouring territory. Ever since our Lord of the Manor on the hill died, Deachan has been sending men to try to take over the land."

"Did your Lord have no sons?" asked the Captain.

Mistress Zavebe shook her head. "Nobody took up the Lordship after he died. And the villagers do not want to swear fealty to Lord Deachan."

"Why?" asked Andromis. "If not this Deachan, who will give the village protection?"

The Charter Mage did not speak.

"Answer the question," said Captain Hiram, using a tone of voice that would have produced instant results among his soldiers. But of course, he should have remembered that the Mage was not a soldier.

The woman's eyes flashed, and she drew herself up to her full – and rather imposing – height. "How _dare_ the two of you treat me like this!" she shouted, slamming her hands down on the table. Andromis jumped. "I am _Lady_ Zavebe, daughter of the late Lord Jarod, and _I _own the manor house up the hill, and this is _my_ village." She pulled a ruby ring from her finger and thrust it at Captain Hiram, who took it automatically. "There's the proof. That's my father's signet ring, with our family's coat-of-arms. The symbol is the same one on the shield that hangs over the inn fireplace."

She threw open the door of the room and literally pushed them out into the common room. Andromis put up little resistance to being shoved around like this, as he was still in a state of shock. His eyes flicked up to the shield over the fire, and noted the oak tree emblem. Zavebe paused for breath, and Andromis hoped that she was finished. How wrong he was.

"Lord Deachan wants me to _marry_ him," she spat, swiping at a mug of beer and knocking it off the table. "I have no male relatives, and he wants to take over my land. Ever since I refused him, he has been trying to take my property _by force_!"

By now everybody in the common room of the inn was staring at them, watching the confrontation with open mouths.

"Even if I wasn't a Lady, you two had _no right_ to behave the way you did! I have _never _seen men treat a woman so rudely in my life! I thought that officers had to be noblemen.

And _you_!" Here she turned to Andromis, who tried not to cringe. "You're worse than your boor of a Captain! You cannot have been an officer long, and therefore you have _no _excuse for forgetting basic courtly manners."

Throughout the tirade, Captain Hiram's expression had gone from surprised to annoyed to amused. When Zavebe was finally done, he turned to Andromis. "Well? Should we tell her?"

"Yes," said Andromis. "I think we should." He nearly grinned at the puzzled expression on the Mage's face. Vengeance was going to be sweet. "We have put up with your scolding well enough, milady, so now it is your turn to listen. Although I am a Lieutenant of the Scarlet Company, I am also Prince Andromis." He drew his sword. "This is my weapon, a Charter blade which bears the golden tower of the Royal family, as you can see. But even if I was not a Prince, you should treat all soldiers of the Kingdom with respect. We have difficult jobs, so understand that the hardships we endure have made us rather less refined than we were before."

The woman was shaking her head. "I'll tell you what I think of the Royal family," she sneered. "They are selfish to have all of the Wallmakers working on the Wall. Villagers and nobles alike need those talents to be used for good, to fix and craft things. Rumour has it that the Wall will kill all of the Wallmakers, and _nothing_ is worth the loss of such talented people." She drew closer and poked Andromis in the chest. "Also, the King your father is a power-hungry tyrant for being a Charter Bloodline and forcing the Bright Shiners to leave! Chief Minister Tralusan is right; something that powerful in a mortal bloodline is dangerous."

Andromis was not surprised by her behaviour, for people were reacting in extreme and violent ways concerning the Wall. The King's army was stretched to the limit to keep the peace, something that weakened them and wouldn't bode well in the event of a war. The Bright Shiners had not been seen by anyone, and there were rumours that they were being kept imprisoned in the palace, or bound by the Abhorsen, or locked away in the Clayr's glacier. People were angry with the King, and Andromis could almost respect that. But he couldn't stand for people making judgments when they were misinformed.

"You are entitled to your opinion," said Andromis through gritted teeth, "but you know nothing of what you speak. The Bright Shiners were the ones who _chose_ to leave, and the Bright Shiners were the ones who _wanted_ to put their powers into the Bloodlines. My ancestors had no choice. And do you _really_ think that mere mortals can tell the Shiners what to do?" Zavebe looked abashed, but Andromis was not finished yet. "Your darling Tralusan is a fool who doesn't have all the facts. Ever since my father met him two years ago, we've been convinced of his unfounded discrimination and his blindness towards reason. In any case, the affair is to be settled next autumn by single combat – which I am a possible candidate for, so I am decidedly _not _looking forward to the occasion, and pray every day that my father will come to his senses and choose someone better-qualified! So don't you _dare_ tell me that I have no excuse for _forgetting courtly manners_!"

At this point, Captain Hiram grabbed him by the shoulder and steered him out of the inn. The cold air brought Andromis to his senses and he realized that he had just been yelling at a Lady in the middle of a crowded room. He needed a vacation.

"So, how'd it go?" asked Lieutenant Braham.

As the Captain enlightened the other officers as to the true identity of the "thieves", Andromis fidgeted with his gloves and glared at his boots. He couldn't wait to leave this place. Everyone was utterly mad.

"So the Charter Mage is actually a Lady?" asked Marrick, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. "And she's lonely?" Braham stifled a snort of laughter.

"Lady!" Andromis snorted, finally joining the conversation. "She is the most insolent woman I have ever met, and nothing at all like my Charsia, who is a _true _Lady. Her nose is too beaky, for one! My Charsia has the prettiest nose of all the women at court."

"We can debate the merits of your lady's nose later," said Marrick, "but I'm wondering about this Mage. Perhaps our Captain here could marry her and defend her from the evil Lord Deachan! She does have the reddest hair I've ever seen. Is it a sign? Scarlet hair for the Scarlet Company?"

"It is a sign that you are reading far too much into this," said the Captain, rolling his eyes. "Pay attention. I want this matter cleared up as soon as possible. We shall lead a delegation to Lord Deachan, and negotiate a truce between the two properties. Lieutenants Andromis and Marrick will stay here. Choose ten soldiers to stay with you." With that, Captain Hiram strode off to fetch his horse. Andromis followed his Captain, meaning to protest about being left behind, but Hiram beat him to it. "I'm sorry about leaving you within shouting distance of Lady Zavebe," he said as he prepared his horse. "But I think your presence here will keep her in line. She's quite a formidable girl."

Andromis grimaced and took a quick look back over his shoulder at the inn. Zavebe was standing in the open doorway, looking at him through the snow, but when he caught her glance she scowled and averted her eyes.

In that very instant the Prince got a sudden flash of premonition. He absently said farewell to his Captain, and barely noticed the rest of the Company galloping off.

His friend Marrick strolled over. "What's wrong with you? You keep staring at the inn like that and your eyes are going to fall out."

"I just had a flash of the Sight," said the Prince, still staring.

Marrick looked suspicious. "What do you mean?"

"The Sight isn't strong in me at all, but I do get the rare vision," Andromis explained. "I must get it from my mother."

"Well?" encouraged Marrick. "What did you See?"

"Lady Zavebe," sighed the Prince. He hung his head in despair. "I'm going to marry her."

Marrick started to laugh, but the miserable expression on Andromis' face stopped him. "Well, it's not all that bad," he said bracingly. "She is rather pretty, in a – a – a _bold_ sort of way. Except that nose, but you can't have everything, can you? And her personality is a refreshing change to all the ladies at court. None of them quite have her – um – spirit."

"You've got that right," Andromis muttered. "She's a complete lunatic." He suddenly groaned and buried his face in his hands – what was he going to tell Lady Charsia? Somehow, he doesn't think the "I had a vision" excuse would cut it. And everyone had been so sure that they would be getting married, including him. Overcome with frustration, he swore and kicked a rock. It didn't go far, and Andromis blasted it to pieces with magic.

"Marrick?" said the Prince, scuffing the remains of the rock into the snow. "I think now would be a good time to get out that brandy."

_A/N: The ruby ring, the beaky nose, the scarlet hair… and Andromis in love with his messenger hawk Ruby. He really should have seen it coming._

_Okay, let's talk about the army – which I basically made up. The General of the Army (now Paleon) is the head honcho. Then there are a bunch of Regimental Outposts (like forts or camps) scattered throughout the Kingdom and commanded by Colonels, who report to the General; each Regiment has a number (ex. the Twenty-Sixth). Regiments are made up of Companies, which are named for colours (ex. Scarlet) and commanded by Captains. Each Captain has Lieutenants serving under him or her, and the Lieutenants command the soldiers. Officers are members of nobility, and the soldiers are commoners._

_Andromis took an academic and physical exam to serve at a Regimental Outpost as a petty officer. After two years serving the Twenty-Sixth Regiment, he was allowed to apply for Lieutenantship – but you can only write the Lieutenant's exam once a year. When he passed his exam, he was assigned to the Scarlet Company. A Lieutenant's rank depends on how long they've been a Lieutenant, not necessarily on skill; it is assumed that if you made it this far you have all the skills required, and experience is valued in the field more than anything (hence Andromis being Third). Hope these explanations make sense!_


	43. Vichael's Various Lessons

_A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed! I'm so happy to hear from people who haven't reviewed before to see what they think, and I also love hearing from you fabulous faithful reviewers. And I'm sure Andromis appreciated your sympathy for his situation, poor guy._

_I'm terribly sorry about the relative lateness of this chapter. It was giving me a few problems, and my laptop wasn't cooperating either. Also, I thought I'd have a lot of time since exams were over, but I was so busy preparing for my trip to New Zealand – land of the hobbits. Anyway, here's the next chapter, at long last._

**Vichael's Various Lessons**

Cassiel Abhorsen was having a terrible day. It was raining, which was downright depressing. He had spent the entire morning wallowing knee-deep in a swamp as he fought a couple of Stilkens who had decided to set up a home in the mire. His afternoon had not been much better, as he had gotten lost – twice – on his way back to the House. Mogget had 'accidentally' tripped up the sending who was bringing hot water up to his rooms to bathe in, and so he'd had to wait twice as long as usual before he was properly clean and warm. In the evening the sendings had burnt the supper. And now it was night, and he was sitting in his Study reading hate mail. If any day had been so perfectly designed to tempt him to throw himself into the river, it was this day.

The hate mail in itself was nothing unusual. It was all the same – people were criticizing him, demanding that he give up his Charter blood and allow the Bright Shiners to return. Some of the more nasty ones brought up his father's past. As the son of a necromancer, Cassiel was not generally regarded as the most reliable person on the King's Council. The Abhorsen scanned one of the letters, which questioned his true loyalties, and insinuated that he was gathering his own army of Dead to strike when all of the Bright Shiners were gone. A month ago Cassiel would have been inclined to laugh at the ludicrousness of it all, but that was before he had found a blue-clad doll with a knife through its stomach in a package sent to his younger son.

Cassiel crumpled up the letter and threw it into the fireplace, before cradling his head on his desk and letting out a loud groan; some people were stupid. He had forbidden his sons from opening letters, especially the ones addressed to them. It was bad enough having people coming after him, but when they blamed his children…

It all came down to Tralusan. The Chief Minister had kept his word and not voiced a single opinion about the Wall. As if to make up for it, though, he had recently given a speech about progressiveness, which had been attended by the King. Cassiel's heritage had been brought up, with Tralusan citing him as a controversial member of the King's Council, and questioning his actual role within the Kingdom in rather colourful language. Those claims had been shut down by Dantalion, but the hate mail had increased since that speech. Most Ancelstierrans didn't believe in the stories of the Dead, anyway. They would rather believe that the King's advisor was a lunatic.

Cassiel picked at the tomato sandwich he had made in lieu of the braised lamb that the sendings had accidentally charred beyond recognition. He could hear Lessandra's voice in the Reading Room below. He needed to get out of the Study and away from the letters. He needed to spend more time with his family. Cassiel pushed himself to his feet, and descended the curving stair.

Lessandra and their two sons were seated side-by-side on a squashy couch under a Charter-light lantern. "Do you need to hear it again?" his wife was saying. The boys nodded, and Lessandra recited:

"_When the Dead do walk, seek water's run,_

_For this the Dead will always shun._

_Swift river's best or broadest lake_

_To ward the Dead and haven make._

_If water fails thee, fire's thy friend;_

_If neither guards, it will be thy end_.

"Now it's your turn!" she said, with the air of giving them a real treat.

Vichael and Turiel exchanged dubious glances behind their mother's back. "When the Dead do walk, seek water's run," said Vichael hesitantly. "Um… for the Dead… uh…"

Cassiel laughed, striding forward. "Well done, Vichael," he congratulated. "One line out of six. Excellent start. And you," he said, turning to Turiel. "I liked the part where you said nothing at all. Very clever, indeed."

"Cassiel…" Lessandra had that warning tone in her voice.

"Lessandra," Cassiel mimicked back at her. "What in the world were you teaching them, my good wife? 'If neither guards, it will be thy end'? Quite gloomy for a nursery rhyme, don't you think?"

"I made it up," said his wife, sending him a withering glare. "I thought it would be useful, my _good husband_. The Dead have started to increase in numbers, after all."

She was right, of course. The necromancers plaguing the Kingdom had all but disappeared following the destruction of the Freemen, with the odd incident resurfacing over the years. Recently, however, attacks by the Dead had been growing more common. With the Kingdom in disarray, the necromancers, sorcerers, and witches were taking advantage of the King's attention being focussed on Ancelstierre, and were summoning new armies of Dead and Free Magic creatures. Cassiel had been working with the King's Charter Mages to deal with the uprisings.

The Abhorsen could not argue with his wife's good sense, so he shoved his hands into his pockets and looked about the room, noticing something for the first time. "Lessandra – what are in those boxes?"

"Oh, those!" said his wife brightly. "I've been packing away many of our books to send to the Glacier. Princess Sitri sent me a letter asking for any books we might have to donate to the Great Library of the Clayr. I've been going through the bookshelves all morning while you were busy demolishing the honeymoon home of those two Stilkens. And then after I had done that I decided to rearrange all of the books in the House, alphabetically by subject."

"Okay…" Cassiel frowned. He was used to his wife's bouts of obsessive behaviour, which were usually linked to books in some way. Only last month she had turned the study into a workroom as she set about repairing every single book with ripped bindings. Cassiel hadn't been able to enter the room because of the dust. "So, when exactly were you planning on telling me this?" he asked, bringing the conversation back on track In answer his wife merely grinned and shrugged, and the Abhorsen gave what he thought was a severe frown. "Boys," he said, endeavouring to sound stern, "will you leave the room for a moment? Your parents need some time for a grown-up talk."

"Why, is mother going to start hitting you again?" asked Vichael cheekily, making no move to get up. He was all of thirteen, and had developed a decidedly roguish streak that Cassiel did not fully appreciate.

The Abhorsen scowled. "What do I keep telling you two? Your mother _never_ hits me. Okay, there's the odd punch on the arm which causes me to lose all mobility in that limb for days on end, but that's just a joke between your mother and me. Who's the man of the house anyway?" The two boys exchanged sceptical glances, and Turiel went so far as to stifle a giggle with his hand. Lessandra leaned back on the couch and put her arms around her sons, looking very smug. "All right, all right," Lord Abhorsen grumbled. "Gang up on me. Fine. But Lessandra, you should have at least consulted me. These books are mine as much as they are yours."

"That is decidedly not true," said his wife, "because you never read any of them. Show me one book in those boxes that you can't part with. Go on."

Cassiel rummaged through the boxes, and seized a volume bound in boards with closely-knitted covers. "_In the Skin of a Lyon_!" he sputtered. "The Wallmaker Ghidreth gave it to us as an elopement present! How could you be donating something like this?"

Lessandra rose from the couch. "It's valuable, isn't it?"

"Very – just look at it." The Abhorsen flipped through the pages which were saturated with Charter Magic, from the paper to the ink to the very stitches that held it together. "It's thanks to this that I can make my fisher hawk Charterskin in the first place!"

"Well," said the woman slowly as she walked over, "shouldn't it be sent to the Great Library, where it will be protected? The Glacier is the safest place by far to store knowledge. The fire in Belisaere proved that."

Cassiel mouthed soundlessly, book dangling from his hand. "But – but –"

"But nothing!" With an overly-cheerful grin, Lessandra snatched _In the Skin of a Lyon_ from his faltering grasp and tossed it back into the box. She raised her chin, as if daring him to disagree with her. "Stop moping around and actually do something useful. Teach Vichael."

"I'm not moping," Cassiel mumbled angrily under his breath, but he turned and beckoned his eldest son up to the study. Vichael whispered something to Turiel that sounded a little like, "Mother wins again," before getting up to follow him. "Mother _always _wins," stated Turiel, not even bothering to keep his voice down. Cassiel ignored them both.

It was dark and raining heavily outside, so they couldn't leave the wards of the House to go into Death. Instead, Cassiel decided that he and his son would stay inside to study the Book of the Dead. The Book always had an unsettling effect on the Abhorsen. Whenever he added notes to the pages, they somehow integrated themselves into the text. Some of the things he read he would promptly forget, only to remember them at the right time. And the contents of the book were constantly shifting and changing. It was all very disconcerting, but he tried not to think about it.

Vichael seated himself at the desk, scuffing the carpet with stocking-clad feet. Cassiel took the book from its place on the shelf, relieved that his wife hadn't seen fit to send that particular volume to the Glacier. He and Vichael had already made their way through half of it, and the heavy book opened to the exact page they left off with every time.

Vichael was in the middle of studying the Nine Gates of Death, when he spotted a few of the letters which had not been burned yet. He took one up before Cassiel could stop him. "This one says you should stick your head up a horse's–"

"Hey!" Cassiel snatched the paper from his son's hand and pitched it into the fire with expert aim. "You know better than to read that stuff, Vichael. You do that and your faith in the intelligence of people is going to be severely tried."

The boy frowned and stared into the fire, where the letter was curling into ash. "Father," he said, "why don't the Ancelstierrans like us?"

"The Kingdom and Ancelstierre have a bad history," said Cassiel. He gathered up the rest of the letters and crumpled them into a large ball which he lobbed into the fire. It lit up with a satisfying crackle.

"Why? What happened?"

The Abhorsen sighed – he would have to explain to his son one day. It might as well be today. The past twenty-four hours had gone so terribly that he did not feel up to arguing with his son. "Back when King Dantalion's grandfather was ruling, the Kingdom included what we now call Ancelstierre." Cassiel leaned against the wall, staring into the fire. "The Moot was a meeting of Mages, nobility, and the Royal Family to discuss the running of the Kingdom. Taxation, enforcing laws, boring stuff like that. The Moot convened only at the King's command in Belisaere."

He walked over and sat behind his desk, and Vichael leaned forward to listen, pushing the Book of the Dead aside.

"However," the Abhorsen continued, "a group of southern Lords started to meet in secret in Corvere. They felt that the King was ignoring the needs of the south. Their leaders were thirteen Lords who called themselves the Ministers, and Lord Ancel of Corvere was elected their Chief. They started to enforce different laws on their subjects than the northern nobility."

"Weren't they detected?" asked Vichael, dark brows drawing together in consternation.

"Yes, they were. But when Ancel and his twelve Ministers were convicted of treason, the King's brother Prince Jorranen bought their pardons. He was sympathetic to their cause, you see. And that was the start of the Civil War, with the southern Lords and their knights against the King, the Army, and the rest of the Moot. Many were killed, and for years neither side showed any sign of winning." Cassiel picked up a quill pen and spun it between his fingers, recalling the history lesson that his father had given him, long ago. "When an armistice was finally called, it was decided that the Kingdom would be split into two countries. The King and a chosen group of loyal advisors, now called the King's Council, would rule the north and maintain sovereignty. The remainder of the Moot would rule the south under the leadership of the thirteen Ministers, with the Prince as their Chief."

"But what about Lord Ancel?"

The Abhorsen tossed aside his quill. "He was killed in the war and declared a national hero. Ancelstierre was named after him, and the remains of his palace in Corvere became Moot Hall."

"How illuminating, Abhorsen. And I wonder why your family is so poorly-educated."

Father and son spun around to see Mogget leaning against a bookshelf. They had not heard him come in. The dwarf had a scornful expression on his pale face.

"What do you mean?" asked Cassiel with forced politeness.

Mogget sniffed. "I have been listening to your insufferable family this evening, and it seems that you and your wife only teach your heir poetry and history – neither of which will be helpful when facing a Hrule."

"Oh really?" said the Abhorsen, crossing his arms and raising a dark eyebrow. "And I suppose _you_ could do better?"

"Yes," said the dwarf with a conceited smile. "I can."

Cassiel motioned towards the desk with exaggerated courteousness. "Well, why don't you, then?"

He had not really expected Mogget to take him up on his offer, but in the blink of an eye the dwarf had transformed into a cat and jumped up onto the desk. The white cat strolled over to sit across from Vichael, looking at the pages of the Book of the Dead upside-down.

"All right, Vichael," said Mogget briskly. "First things first. How _do_ you kill a Hrule?"

"Wait, I know this one." Vichael scrunched his eyes shut, biting his lip as he strained to remember. "You don't – you don't stab them with a thistle, do you?"

Mogget reached out with his paw, and pricked Vichael on the back of the hand. "Wrong."

"Ow!" The boy's eyes flew open.

Cassiel was surprised by Mogget's strange form of discipline, but decided to say nothing for the time being. He leaned against the wall by the fireplace, ready to step in should things get out of control.

Vichael was rubbing the back of his hand and glaring at the cat, who smiled serenely at him. This only served to further annoy the teenager, which was no doubt Mogget's intention. "Wrong, wrong, wrong," the cat purred. "A Hrule cannot be killed."

"What!" Vichael yelped. "That was a trick question!"

"_But_," Mogget said loudly, overriding the boy's complaints, "a thistle can cut through its flesh, and if driven into the heart will return it to the earth."

"I knew that," Cassiel's son said grumpily, examining the back of his hand. A bead of dark red blood quivered there, and the boy blotted it away with his sleeve.

"Next question, then," said the cat, lashing his tail on the top of the desk. Cassiel wondered briefly whether or not he should allow the 'lesson' to continue, but his curiosity quickly overrode his anxiety. Besides, his son could take care of himself. "Name the seven bells," said Mogget, "in order from smallest to largest, with their titles."

Vichael rolled his eyes. "Ranna the Sleepbringer, Mosrael the Waker, Kibeth the Walker, Dyrim the Speaker, Belgaer the Thinker, Saraneth the Binder, and Astarael the Sorrowful," he rattled off without a second's thought. Cassiel felt quite proud of his son.

But Mogget's claw whipped out again and pricked the boy's hand a second time. "Ranna is also known as the Sleeper," the cat smirked. "And Astarael is also called the Weeper."

"All right, that is just not fair," Vichael said, giving the cat a fierce look. "Father–"

Cassiel felt he had to defend his son. "Mogget, Vichael did get that question right."

"Not completely," the cat sniffed. "Spare the claw, spoil the child."

The Abhorsen gave his son an apologetic shrug, and Vichael started to splutter in anger at the cruel injustice of it all. "Guh – buh – but I–"

"Third question," announced the cat, successfully ignoring his pupil. "What lies beyond the Eighth Gate?"

Silence greeted these words, and both father and son were staring at the little white cat as though he were out of his mind. "Nobody knows," Vichael said very slowly and clearly, as if talking to a small child or an idiot. "I doubt that even you know, Mogget."

The cat's paw flashed out again, but this time the teenager was ready; he just managed to withdraw his hand in time, and Mogget's claw scratched the surface of the redwood table. Before the cat could do anything, Vichael raised a hand and zapped him with a swiftly-cast spell. Mogget shot high into the air and yowled, his fur standing all on end. He landed looking like a fluffy ball with legs, and the green eyes shining out of that white shock of fur were filled with rage.

"Lesson's over," Cassiel said hastily, and instinctively moved between his son and the cat, who was now hissing like a kettle about to explode.

Before an already tense situation could escalate into a fully-fledged catastrophe, a sending entered the study and approached Cassiel. It held a letter in its hands, and the Abhorsen took it with a brief word of thanks. The scroll bore the royal seal, and he tore it open, praying that it conveyed some good news, for a change.

"What is it, father?" asked Vichael. The animosity between the boy and Mogget had temporarily been forgotten as they waited to hear the news.

"It is a summons across the Wall," Cassiel explained finally. "It says here that an estate in northern Ancelstierre will host a match of single combat, between champions chosen to represent King Dantalion and Chief Minister Tralusan. The King cordially requests the presence of the Abhorsen." He scanned the bottom of the letter. "It's in four days." He allowed his hand to fall to his side, still clutching the letter. Had it been three years already since Tralusan's challenge had been issued? He had lost track of the time and completely forgotten that such a match was to take place.

Mogget changed back into a dwarf, smoothing his dishevelled beard as best he could while perching on the edge of the desk. "I suppose you will be leaving soon, then?" he asked.

Cassiel nodded. "Yes, first thing tomorrow. Have the sendings prepare my things."

After Mogget had left, the Abhorsen turned to his son. "Go to bed, Vichael," he said. "You've had enough lessons for today, and I need some time to think about this." The boy nodded and left the room, and Cassiel sat down heavily at his desk, staring at the letter. It was just the thing to top off what had to be one of the worst days of his life.

The lamps in his study burned long into the night.

_A/N: I'll be leaving for New Zealand on Thursday, and will be away for four weeks. This means that I won't be able to update until I come home, but I'll take my notebook with me and work on the story while I'm over there, so hopefully all I'll have to do once I come back is type up the chapters and post them. And I've definitely decided to stop at 50 chapters this time. Really! I have more ideas, of course, and I won't be able to spend as much time with some of the characters as I would like. So that means that a tentative sequel should be in order. I'm not promising anything, though!_

_Reviews, as always, are lovely. I will try to reply to them as quickly as I can._


	44. Single Combat

_A/N: Hello again! New Zealand was absolutely amazing. Seriously one of the most beautiful places in the world, after Canada (why no, I'm not biased…) And I celebrated my 21__st__ birthday over there, which was awesome. Everybody should go to New Zealand; Wellington has the most restaurants, cafes, bars, pubs, and clubs per capita than any other city in the world! And it's the birthplace of Peter Jackson._

_Before we resume with our tale, let me just say that I was terrified of writing this chapter. Despite how violent this story has somehow become, I still get nervous whenever I write a bit of action – especially extended fight scenes. Anyway, welcome back and enjoy. Oh, and happy Canada Day!_

_Thanks for the correction, May!_

**Single Combat**

Captain Javen sat alone in a scarlet and gold tent, reflecting on his situation. He had never been more nervous in his life, not when he waited on the steps of Holehallow to face his attackers, and not even before the birth of his first child. Being nervous was certainly nothing new to the Captain of the Royal Guard, but he could actually feel himself shaking – not a good sign. And as they were too far south to access the Charter, the Captain felt even more vulnerable without that familiar presence.

Delegations from the Kingdom and Ancelstierre were camped out on the estate of an Ancelstierran lord friendly to the Old Kingdom, presumably to make them feel "safe". The isolation also sheltered them from the many assassins who were after the Abhorsen, the King, the Wallmakers, or any combination of the above. Of course, assassins were the least of Captain Javen's worries at the moment. Somehow he had been selected to represent the Kingdom in a trial of single combat, and in a few minutes he would be facing the best fighter in Ancelstierre. The Captain supposed his situation warranted a bit of nervousness, but that did not make him feel any better about what he was going to do.

Reactions to the Council's decision had been varied. Javen himself was forced to accept the task with as much grace and false happiness that he could dredge up. The guards were proud that their Captain had been chosen from all the swordsmen in the Kingdom, and boasted openly to the soldiers. In reply, the soldiers maintained that _their_ own officers were too valuable to risk in single combat. And upon his arrival at the estate, Cassiel Abhorsen had been so pathetically relieved that Javen would be fighting that it was almost insulting.

Princess Farelle, however, had immediately confronted her father upon hearing the news. Their conversation had escalated into a shouting match overheard by half the palace, in which Farelle accused her father of using the tournament as a convenient way to get her husband killed. That would have been treason from the mouth of anyone else, but from the Crown Princess it was impudence. Their "conversation" was not helped by the fact that the King was even more short-tempered than usual, due to the Prince's recent bizarre behaviour.

From what Javen could gather from his wife, a letter from Prince Andromis to the palace had contained mention of a mysterious woman in the northwest. The news had spread like wildfire through court, as such news has a wont to do. Lady Charsia's family had been scandalized at the dishonourable treatment of their daughter, a girl who had been a shoo-in for the next Princess. King Dantalion had been obliged to smooth the whole thing over, and as he rarely exerted himself in order to please others, the result was a very irritated King.

In short, the King and the Crown Princess were hardly speaking to each other any more, which made it all the worse for Javen who was trapped in a nightmare scenario. If the Captain had ever been in need of comfort, it was now – but with his wife too angry at her father to even speak coherently, there seemed little chance of that.

The flap of the tent was thrown back, and Lieutenant Staunis ducked inside. He gave his Captain a tight smile. "How are you feeling, sir?"

Javen wanted to say something nonchalant and witty, but he only succeeded in grunting a little. Staunis, damn him, gave a knowing smile, before walking over to help him on with his gethre coat. It hung down to Javen's knees and was split for riding, although this particular battle would be on foot. He wondered idly if he would ever ride a horse again.

The Captain had just struggled into the right sleeve, when the tent flap was thrown back a second time and in strode – the King?

Out of long habit Javen and Staunis sprang immediately to attention, which was awkward for the Captain, not to mention uncomfortable. King Dantalion regarded the younger men coolly before jerking his head at the Lieutenant. Staunis did not need to ask for clarification; he gave a smart salute and left the tent quickly.

Ignoring the urge to stare wistfully after his Lieutenant, Javen squared his shoulders and faced his father-in-law, attempting to look as dignified as possible with one arm stuck inside his gethre armour. The two of them stared at each other, and the King eventually broke the silence: "How are you feeling, Captain?"

Javen resisted a mad urge to laugh. This was the second time in ten minutes that he had been asked that ridiculous question. He was only minutes away from facing the champion of Ancelstierre in single combat, and the outcome could very well determine whether the two countries went to war or not. How did everybody _think_ he was feeling? But the King would probably not appreciate an honest answer, so he replied, "I'm all right."

King Dantalion walked over to the younger man and lifted the dangling gethre coat. Javen glanced at him questioningly before pulling the armour over his head. It was during that tricky moment when one's head is stuck just below one's collar that the King decided to speak: "My daughter has accused me of something quite serious."

Fumbling around in the darkness inside his gethre coat, Javen stifled a sigh. "Did she, your Majesty?" he asked, yanking the coat over his head and brushing back his mussed hair.

The King started to buckle the armour up the sides, and Dantalion lifted his arms to allow better access. "Yes, Captain. She told me that she believes I won't mind if you die, and that's why I elected you for this fight. She said I wished to find her a husband I considered more – ah – _suitable_."

Now Javen really could not suppress a smile. "The thought had crossed my mind," he admitted.

King Dantalion deftly fastened the last leather buckle, and reached for a pair of hobnailed boots. He knelt and placed a boot on Javen's foot, steadying it on a stool as he laced it up. Tightly. "I told Farelle that she was being foolish. I certainly don't want you killed, Captain." Hardly able to believe his ears, Javen looked on in surprise. "Think of what Tralusan would do to the Kingdom if we lose this fight," clarified the King.

Captain Javen sighed. "I know that," he admitted heavily. "Farelle is just worried, and I am sure she did not mean what she said about you nominating me just to be killed." Mustering his courage, he decided to be direct, for once. "But in all honesty, your Majesty, it is no secret that you do not approve of me."

The King kept lacing up the boot, his sharp eyes thankfully intent on the task. "It is true that I consider your ancestry to be greatly beneath my daughter's," he said simply. "It is true that I would have preferred someone of high nobility as a son-in-law, an heir to an old estate perhaps. And I ended up with the third son of a minor nobleman!"

Javen remembered just in time that it was not polite to scowl at the King, but it was a near miss. King Dantalion had finished lacing the boot and reached for the other one. "But despite your origins, the Council chose _you_ as the Kingdom's champion," he continued. "And against all of my inclinations otherwise, I have to admit that I am quite relieved that Farelle married a man of the sword. Your low birth might have been enough for me to interfere, but fortunately for you, you've no small skill with a blade."

Javen couldn't think of anything to say. He wasn't sure whether to be flattered or offended. The King finished lacing up the boot and stood, reaching for a red surcoat that had been slung over the chair. "Your wife will be the Queen one day, Captain. She will need someone to watch over her. In protecting Farelle during her rule, you will be protecting the Kingdom itself." He held up the surcoat, and the golden tower insignia on the chest gleamed. "That is what you are doing right now, Captain. You may as well get used to the job."

It took a while for Javen to realize that his mouth was hanging open, and he closed it abruptly. He said nothing as King Dantalion helped him on with the surcoat, and still said nothing as he buckled his swordbelt with fumbling fingers. Finally, the King clasped his arm. "May the Charter protect you, Javen," he said. The young man gulped and nodded, staring after the older man as he left the tent with a swirl of his cloak. Had the old man really just called him by name?

After a moment of confusion, Javen attempted to focus on the task at hand. "Right," he said under his breath, seeking desperately for composure. He reached for his helm, dropped it, picked it up again, and placed it firmly upon his head – before realizing that it was on backwards. "Charter take me!" he cursed, settling it the right way around. He picked up his shield, squared his shoulders, and ducked out of the tent before he could make any more ridiculous mistakes.

It was a grey day with a chilly wind, especially on the meadow which offered no shelter. A large circle had been marked out with wooden posts; at one end was gathered the Old Kingdom delegation, and at the other a mixed group of Ancelstierrans. The glares they were shooting him made it difficult not to run over to his countrymen, so he settled for a very brisk walk.

"Javen," Farelle whispered, throwing her arms around him. "Oh darling, please, _please_ don't do anything stupid. Keep your eyes open, and your sword up, and don't forget to move your feet." The fur lining of her cloak tickled his cheek, and as her words swept over him that was all he could feel.

Nodding absently, he looked over her head at the King whose expression he could not read. Cassiel Abhorsen stood beyond him, between the Wallmakers Felio and Nehima. All three of them looked as if they were going to be sick, which was hardly reassuring. But the King's mad sister Princess Merabel was giving him an encouraging grin, and the guardsmen were beaming at him. Their complete confidence made the Captain feel a bit better, and nodded over at the Ancelstierrans, striving for a look of nonchalance. "Which one is it, then?"

Staunis knew what he meant. "Sir Palidren, the black-armoured one."

Javen squinted his eyes at the knight, and a second later all of the breath had left his body. A flash of remembrance – a figure in black armour glimpsed in the blade of his sword on the steps of Holehallow. The Captain licked his lips nervously. So this was his fate.

"Javen?" The Captain blinked and looked down at his wife, who had sensed that something was wrong. "What is it?"

He forced a smile. "Nothing." He looked out over the meadow undulating like a restless sea under the grey sky. "Let's get this over with."

Hefting his shield, the Captain of the Royal Guard walked out into the ring.

The black knight came forward to meet him, followed by the Hereditary Arbiter. Healers were also on hand to stop their wounds, a sight that strangely failed to comfort the Captain. The old man held up his hands for silence, and after clearing his throat several times addressed the watchers: "Here we stand, eighth year of the rule of King Dantalion I, year sixty of Ancelstierre, to witness a duel between Lord Javen of Belisaere, and Sir Palidren of Thanet. It is to be a trial of single combat until one or the other is killed or yields. Swords are the only weapons to be used – any other is strictly forbidden. Including magic." The Arbiter said this with a warning look at Javen, but the young man rolled his eyes. This far from the Wall with a southerly wind, he doubted if the Abhorsen himself could access the Charter.

"If the victory goes to Sir Palidren, Chief Minister Tralusan will publicly denounce the construction of the Wall. If the victory is Lord Javen's, Chief Minister Tralusan will voice no opinions on the Wall, but retains the right to step in upon completion if abuse against the Bright Shiners is perceived. These are the terms, as agreed at the Moot three years ago to the day, as witnessed by myself. Are they clear?" King Dantalion and Chief Minister Tralusan glared at each other across the length of the field, but voiced no objections. The Arbiter took some time placing the two swordsmen so that no advantage of sun or wind was given to either. Once this was done, he stepped out of the ring.

Javen sized up his opponent. Sir Palidren was a powerfully-built man, from what could be seen under the mass of black armour. Plates of the stuff covered his body, to the closed helm concealing his face. Slowly the knight drew his sword, and Javen stared at the spiked mail gloves. He himself was bare-handed for better mobility.

Blowing a wayward strand of hair out of his face, Javen drew his Charter blade and put one foot carefully in front of the other. He cast his mind back to his boyhood, stalking deer in the Great Sickle Wood. He paused just out of range of the knight's sword, licking his lips as he gauged the distance. The Captain found it very unsettling that he could not see his opponent's eyes through the slitted visor; he just had to time this as well as he could.

He lashed out quickly, only to stagger back under the force of the knight's block and counter-attack. This one was good. Javen kept his distance, ducking nimbly out of the way of swipes that would have been enough to bowl him over if they connected. For the few stabs he managed to get in, he aimed at the gaps and chinks between Palidren's heavy plate armour. His persistence finally paid off, and with a bellow of pain the knight dropped his sword, drew back his mailed fist, and smashed it into the side of Javen's face. The Captain's helmet flew through the air, and he staggered and dropped his sword. His ears were ringing as he knelt in the grass, and he spat out a mouthful of blood – and a tooth.

This was definitely not going as planned. "Fine," panted Javen as blood dripped down his chin. "Fine. If you're not going to play nice, then I won't either." With his free hand he snatched up a handful of dirt and flung it at the face of the advancing knight. Some of it must have made it through the visor, because the other man stopped and scrabbled ineffectually at the front of his helm with a mailed glove.

Javen had not even regained his feet when the knight bore down on him again. The Captain rolled away from a wild sword strike, landing awkwardly on his shield, only to receive a savage kick to the stomach. Forcing himself to his feet, the young man smashed his elbow into Palidren's neck. The move bought him some time, and Javen staggered out of reach as he tried to remember how to breathe properly. He snatched up his fallen sword and spat out more blood, ignoring the shooting pain in his jaw and stomach. He couldn't even bother looking for his helmet at this time. The ringing in his ears had lessened somewhat, at least.

Sir Palidren slowly bent and picked up his sword, hefting the broad blade easily in his hand. Javen clenched his aching jaw and brought up his shield, standing ready. He waited, bare-headed in the centre of the ring, the wind causing his eyes to smart. "Come on," he whispered, adjusting the grip on his sword; his palms were slick with sweat.

The knight made an impressive lunge, for his size, and Javen managed to duck to the side. They exchanged blows once more, Sir Palidren's strength pitted against the Captain's speed. Javen led them in a merry dance around the ring, bobbing and weaving and retreating, but soon the constant barrage started to tell on the younger man. He just missed avoiding a powerful swipe, which grazed the front of his chest and sliced his surcoat. And as Javen glanced down at the torn fabric a drop of sweat dripped into his eye, causing him to blink against the salty sting.

His heel caught on a bump in the ground, and before Javen knew it he had gone down hard, his sword flying clear. Sir Palidren stood over him, dark and menacing. The Captain gazed at him with a mixture of fear and resignation.

A scream of pain ripped from Javen's throat as the knight drove the blade through his right hand, pinning him to the ground. Through a red haze of agony the Captain looked up at his opponent. He knew that if Palidren asked him to yield, he would be forced to give in. This was the end. He had failed them all.

But the knight did not speak. Instead, Palidren raised his shield high above his head with the clear intention of smashing in the Captain's face. Thinking quickly, Javen brought his legs up and kicked Palidren in the knees. The move had not caused the knight any real harm, but it did successfully drive him back. During this brief moment of respite Javen dropped his shield and wrenched the sword out of his hand, pushing himself to his feet to face his opponent. The Captain backed away slowly, hefting Sir Palidren's sword in his left hand to test its weight. The knight had picked up Javen's blade, and they circled each other warily.

"Well done, boy," said the knight. "Most impressive. But I nearly had you there."

"You did not ask me to yield," said Javen, keeping his eyes on the Charter blade gripped by that awful armoured hand. "You mean to kill me."

"Yes, that's right," the knight answered. "If you wish to live, boy, you should give up now. You're no use without a shield, with only one hand, and using an unfamiliar weapon. Go back to your home and your family. Leave the arguing to the politicians."

The young man narrowed his eyes. "I would rather die than so dishonour my country and my King."

Sir Palidren laughed. "Have it your way then."

Javen moved in first, and soon they were blocking and striking in a flurry of flashing silver blades, slashes glancing off armour and whistling through the air. The Captain mentally thanked his old teacher for insisting he learn to wield the sword with his left hand as well as his right. Without a shield, his gethre armour was all that stood between him and his own sword. The Wallmakers' best-kept secret lived up to its reputation as an indestructible material, and the young man shrugged off the frequent connecting blows as he pressed his own attack.

Finally, Javen saw on opening. He ducked Palidren's swipe, and the knight's momentum carried him forward. The Captain slid past him, and turned to slice at the unprotected back of his opponent's leg. Palidren stumbled to the ground and Javen pounced on him, wrenching off the other man's helmet and levelling the sword at his unprotected throat. "Do you yield?" he demanded, breathing hard.

Sir Palidren gulped and nodded, signalling his surrender with a hand. The faint cheers of the Old Kingdom delegation reached Javen's ears, but he was feeling very light-headed now that his adrenaline was gone. He collapsed beside the knight, letting the sword fall to the ground.

Soon Farelle was cradling his head in her lap, and an odd dreaminess had come over Javen's senses as he looked up into his wife's face. The only thing to ruin this perfect moment was a woman screeching nearby for a surgeon. He turned his head to look at her. The woman was tearing away the armour covering Sir Palidren's right leg. "The wound is poisoned!" she sobbed.

Farelle whirled on the wounded knight and his frantic wife. "Your blade was _poisoned_?" she shouted, furious. Nearby Javen could hear the King arguing heatedly with the Chief Minister. Sir Tralusan was coldly saying that he did not know the knight had poisoned his sword, while king Dantalion was bellowing with rage. Javen wondered what all of the fuss was about, before something in his mind finally clicked – he had been stabbed through the hand with that sword! He had been stabbed with a poisoned blade. Oh, Charter…

A surgeon had scuttled over and was attempting to cut away the right sleeve of his armour. The mail-cutters made no mark on the gethre, and there was a pinging sound as they broke in two. Farelle was nearly hysterical as she fumbled with the leather buckles on the sides of his coat, and Javen would have helped her but his limbs felt strangely heavy. Suddenly Felio and Nehima were kneeling at his side, gently drawing Farelle away and removing the armour with rapid ease.

The surgeon gave Javen a vile-tasting draught of something that started to clear the cobwebs from his head, before tearing away the sleeve of his tunic. The Captain heard Nehima let out a gasp. He turned to look at his right arm, and stared: the flesh was black nearly up to the elbow.

"The poison is spreading," said the surgeon, prodding at the infected limb. "I will need to cut it off."

That remark was enough to shock Javen into full consciousness. He gazed up at Farelle who looked as horrified as he felt. There were tears in her eyes, but she did not let them fall. Finally she clenched her jaw and swallowed, and with that the young man knew her decision. "Very well," she said quietly, and Javen gave her a desperate look as the surgeon turned to summon a stretcher. She pretended not to notice, but the Captain reached up with his good hand and caught her sleeve. "Farelle, it's my right arm," he pleaded quietly. The two Wallmakers looked politely away. "What can I do with only one arm?" he asked his wife, tugging at her sleeve to make her look at him. "How can I lead my men? In my line of work, it is better to die."

Farelle's eyes hardened. "Don't you say that," she hissed. "What can you do with only one arm? Beat the best swordsman in Ancelstierre, for one."

Javen opened his mouth, but the wooziness seemed to have set in again, for he could think of no reply. He sighed and lay back down. In the background he could see the King and the Chief Minister signing a document, overseen by the Hereditary Arbiter. The sight gave Javen some satisfaction. Tralusan would send out a decree that vandalism on the Wall was not condoned, and would look to the Lords of the northern Ancelstierran properties to enforce it. Javen knew that the decree would not change the common views of many Ancelstierrans, but it was something. His wife was right; he had done it.

The stretcher arrived and Javen was hurried over to the surgeons' tent. By all the fuss that everyone was making, he might have been royalty himself. As he was carried by, the Captain caught a glimpse of Sir Palidren, and gawped at the sight of a surgeon holding a heated saw over the knight's poisoned leg. He was feeling quite faint when they set him down on a bed, and Lieutenant Staunis appeared at his side with a flask. "Drink up, Captain," the guardsman said cheerily, although his normally-merry expression was strained. Javen gulped down the fiery alcohol, trying to forget what he had seen, and ignoring the surgeon who was tying off his arm above the elbow.

Farelle was holding his left hand in an iron grip, and at the surgeon's suggestion that she leave the tent she stared at him incredulously. "I'm not going anywhere," she declared, and the surgeon said no more. Javen welcomed the pain of her marriage ring digging into his hand. It kept him aware, for already the alcohol was starting to affect him. The surgeon's features were starting to blur together, for one. Javen blinked repeatedly. Surely the man was not heating an enormous knife over a fire? He must be hallucinating.

The hazy outline of the surgeon came to stand over him, and Javen desperately looked over at the blurry shape that was Farelle. And then he felt pain. Everything went white, then faded to deepest black as the Captain of the Guard thankfully slipped away into unconsciousness.

_A/N: The poisoned blade and mixing up of swords was inspired by the final fight scene in Hamlet. You know, the one where everybody ends up dead and the stage is littered with bodies. Also, the knight in black armour is the figure that Javen saw as a reflection in his sword when he was on the steps waiting for an attack, in Chapter 40 "Holehallow"._

_It's good to be back, but I'm quite busy with studying for the MCAT and applying to med schools. I'll try to get the next chapter up in a week. Until then, I'd love to hear from you!_


	45. Looking Through Ice

_A/N: I can't believe how long it's been since I last updated. But I'm still here, never fear! It'll be a miracle if people are still reading this._

_Well, the MCAT was the medieval-grade torture that I expected it to be, and med school applications are driving me inexorably to insanity. But other than that, I'm doing quite fine! Thanks so much for all of your amazing reviews. They really cheered me up and persuaded me to get back to working on this story as soon as I could. Anyway, I finally got around to writing this chapter, so I do hope that you enjoy it._

**Looking Through Ice**

Cassiel Abhorsen gazed about in wonder as he was led through an endless series of halls and caverns. The jagged arcs of blue ice which curved above his head were dusted with glittering snow. He was deep within the Glacier, in a frozen world beyond the polished wooden floors and panelled corridors.

"I suppose you are wondering why we summoned you here," said Neryl over her shoulder, leading him through an arched corridor carved directly through the blue ice.

The Abhorsen stopped gaping at his reflection in an enormous icicle and gathered his wits. "Wha– oh. Yes," he managed to reply, stumbling slightly over the uneven floor as he followed her. Mogget gave an amused snort at his clumsiness, which Cassiel pretended not to hear. "Your message was very brief, Neryl. I thought there might be a vision you wanted to tell me about personally, although why you couldn't use the silver mirrors–"

"It's not quite that," the older woman interrupted before he could make an even greater fool of himself by babbling. "But it does have to do with recent visions, Abhorsen – visions that concern you."

Despite his close relations with the Clayr over the years, Cassiel still felt disturbed whenever these women Saw things about him. The fact that other people knew more about his future than he did left the Abhorsen feeling strangely powerless. Odd feelings of rebellion rose up from a hidden wellspring deep inside him whenever he heard one of the Clayr making a prophecy, an event that happened with disturbing frequency in the Kingdom. It was not that he had no faith in their powers of Sight, but the hard thing was resisting the urge to defy their predictions, and to claim that people had control over their own futures. It was an urge that had taken hold of him ever since he had found himself writing those ambiguous words at the end of the _Book of the Dead_.

Cassiel fancied that Neryl, at least, was aware of his feelings. That helped him restrain himself whenever the Clayr made their visions known with such blatant certainty. That, and the fact that he kept reminding himself that these strange ladies were on his side, and would never do anything against him.

The hairs on the back of Cassiel's neck prickled, and he was awakened from his thoughts as effectively as if he had been dunked in a river. Before he knew quite what he was doing, his body had reflexively jumped to the side, landing in a protective crouch. The Abhorsen stared at a wicked-looking battleaxe. It had come whistling towards him out of nowhere, and agitatedly he wondered when his heart would start beating again. The curved metal edge was frozen a hair's-breadth from where his head had been a split second ago.

"Halt!" a shrill voice rang out.

Cassiel slowly straightened up to find himself face-to-face with one of the twins, but he could waste an age wondering whether it was Cimeri or Berithi.

"Berithi!" exclaimed Neryl in exasperation, answering Cassiel's unspoken question. "The Abhorsen is a welcome guest here. There was no need to do that."

"He is still a guest," said the other twin, Cimeri. "This way is closed to him, Neryl." She stood beside a doorway in the blue ice holding a sword that dazzled Cassiel with its brightness. He hoped that she was less eager to use it than her bloodthirsty sister. "Nobody can know the secrets of the Clayr. If our enemies learned the location of the Observatory–""

"But surely the Abhorsen is trustworthy?" interrupted Neryl, frowning. Cassiel chafed at being talked about as if he wasn't standing right beside the women, but he wasn't about to say anything. He had a feeling that the weapons wouldn't be held back if he did. Mogget, for his part, was looking between the three women with an air of supreme boredom, as if the conversation was beneath him. Cassiel supposed it was easy for him, seeing as he hadn't been nearly savaged with a battleaxe.

"We could blindfold him," Berithi suggested, leaning casually on her weapon. Looking at her, the Abhorsen thought, one wouldn't know that she was a dangerous psychopath. "That way if he's ever captured and tortured, he won't be able to give the location of the Observatory." Berithi gave a wide grin, apparently savouring that thought.

"Er – is there a chance of that happening?" Cassiel asked, trying not to sound too timid, but the Clayr simply ignored him.

Neryl was tapping her slippered foot on the ice as she thought. "Very well," she agreed at last. "Do you object, Abhorsen?"

"Not at all." He obediently untied a blue sash from his waist. As he lifted it to his eyes, Cimeri pointed her glittering sword at a point between Mogget's green eyes. "But _that _one cannot pass."

The albino dwarf crossed his arms in the face of the unwavering blade and glared balefully up at the twins, who met his gaze with identical stony expressions. "All right," the dwarf huffed. "I suppose I'll be left here with these two lunatics. Only a lowly servant, always happy to stay in his place. No trouble at all."

Out of long practice Cassiel tuned out Mogget's grumbling and tied the sash over his eyes. He felt Neryl take him by the hand and soon they were walking along a winding path. Cassiel started to feel very cold, as if they were nearing the heart of the Glacier.

After many twists and turns the Abhorsen sensed something change in the air around him, as though he had stepped out onto the shore of an immense ocean. Neryl stopped him with a gentle hand and removed his blindfold, and Cassiel blinked at the sudden radiance that assailed his eyes. The walls of a vast chamber carved out of the surrounding ice enclosed him on all sides. At least thirty doors edged the room, no doubt leading to tunnels that snaked through the Glacier to anonymous locations. Soft Charter lights hovered in every corner, reflecting off a myriad of facets to chase the shadows away. And at the far end of the chamber stood two young women in armour, one holding a spear and the other a bow. Their faces resembled those of the twins, and Cassiel felt a sudden irrational urge to duck for cover.

"Yes, this is the Observatory," said the Voice of the Clayr, coming up beside him. "You are one of the few – ah – _guests _to see it." She led him to the very middle of the chamber where a small group of women had gathered. They all wore white gowns and moonstone coronets. Cassiel recognized the official garb of the Clayr back when the title had belonged to the King's personal Seer, and his mind flitted over vague childhood memories of Tirelle wearing similar clothing. Now it seemed to have achieved ceremonial significance among her descendents.

The Abhorsen spotted Neryl's sisters Gressa and Saranim in the group. Between them stood Princess Sitri, who had foregone her black Librarian's waistcoat for the occasion. The four other Clayr were much younger, no more than children to Cassiel's eyes. They could be only a couple of years older than Vichael. "These girls have the Sight?" he asked with open scepticism.

"The youngest are fourteen," answered Neryl placidly, while the four teenagers glared at Cassiel from behind her back. "We have found that our daughters usually gain the Sight by that age. They are all perfectly apt."

Neryl indicated the slanted ceiling which the Wallmakers had polished to glassy smoothness some eight years ago. "Whenever one of the Clayr had an important vision she would project it onto that surface, and other Clayr could See what she had Seen. Those without the Sight must look through a spelled ice-pane. Perhaps the King told you, but we have recently worked out how to combine the fragments of one vision shared among us. It seems that the visions are clearest when seven Clayr focus their Sight together."

With a snap of her fingers, the Voice of the Clayr gathered the women around them in a close white circle. Cassiel stood nervously beside the Voice of the Clayr, and watched as the older woman withdrew a long ivory wand and a green glass bottle from one of her voluminous sleeves. She struggled a bit with the bottle before managing to uncork it with a sharp pop.

As if on cue, the circle of Clayr joined hands. Something changed inside the vast chamber, and Cassiel could feel the air hum as if in the advent of a lightning storm. A flood of Charter marks surged up from the icy floor and twisted around the women, so that their bodies and linked hands shimmered with gold. The Abhorsen was amazed at the enormous power he could feel welling up around the Clayr, and just when he thought they wouldn't be able to contain it all they broke their handclasps and held up their arms.

The fountain of Charter marks blazed up to the slanted ceiling and flowed over the ice until the entire surface was a surging lake of fiery gold. Through squinting eyes Cassiel could make no sense of the swirling marks, and his attempts only made him feel slightly dizzy. But he could see that the Clayr were gazing at them as they would an illuminated manuscript, enraptured, eyes moving as they watched something imperceptible to the Abhorsen unfold on the enormous ceiling.

Neryl tossed the contents of the bottle into the air, freezing it with her wand so that a pane of blue ice hung suspended above Cassiel. Peering through it, he saw not a shower of unfamiliar Charter marks, but a forest. He realized that he could now see what the Clayr were Seeing, although slightly distorted – the vision of the forest was made up of seven separate pictures that constantly flickered and interchanged.

Leaning forward, the Abhorsen was suddenly falling upwards. A glaring blue light blinded his eyes and for a split second he felt bitterly cold. Then he was standing in the forest. He was inside the vision!

Through the trees he could see the Wall, and telling by the position of the sun he was on the Ancelstierran side. Nearby a crowd of people were milling around some painted Anti-Wall signs stuck into the ground. For a moment Cassiel thought that the Clayr had made a mistake and were showing him something that had occurred in the past, because the issue of the Wall was already resolved. Then it hit him.

Every one of those people was Dead.

He could still see traces of grave dirt clinging to ragged clothing, and spotted the odd flash of bone in a rotting hand or disintegrated face. The Dead Hands were moving listlessly, which meant that they had probably been raised to guard something. Cassiel crept closer, relieved when none of the Dead noticed him. He wrinkled his nose when he caught a very faint whiff of metallic scent. Watching carefully, in the very middle of the crowd he spotted a flash of fire, confirming his suspicions that a necromancer was among them. The next question would be what a necromancer was doing inside a Free Magic circle of protection, with a group of Dead Hands as an added defence. If only he could see the necromancer…

Looking around, Cassiel spotted a sturdy oak tree. He pulled himself up the gnarled trunk and inched along one of the branches until he found himself above the mass of Dead Hands. He leaned over while keeping a tight hold on the rough bark, gazing at the spot where he had seen the flames.

What he saw made his breath catch in his chest. There was not one necromancer, but three. And all stood within the fiery circle of protection. Frost rimed their features, but he could clearly make out their long auburn hair and bell-bandoliers. They were in Death, and the only purpose that a necromancer would have in Death was to summon something. If that something required three necromancers to control its will, then the Kingdom could be in for a lot of trouble.

Cassiel leaned forward for a closer look, and accidentally snapped off a few twigs. They plummeted onto the heads of the Dead Hands, who sluggishly turned their rotting eyes up to his perch. The man froze instinctively. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt hands on his shoulders, pulling him back.

There was the sound of smashing ice, and Cassiel found himself back in the Observatory with pieces of the broken pane around his feet and down his tunic. Shaking ice from his hair, Cassiel turned to Neryl. His eyes were wide and his breathing was rapid. "I need to cross the Wall," were the first words out of his mouth.

The Voice of the Clayr nodded at his cryptic statement. "We know."

The Abhorsen made an effort to calm himself, forcing his mind to recall what he had seen. "There were three necromancers trying to raise something," he muttered, thinking aloud. "With so many of them, whatever it was must have been imprisoned long ago…"

"It is a Free Magic creature," said Princess Sitri. The rest of the Clayr had broken the circle, and the four teenagers had already disappeared through one of the many doors. "I tried looking it up in the books we have," explained the Librarian, "but I couldn't find any descriptions that fit."

"The body of this creature has been found – will be found – by the necromancers, and your path lies with it," Neryl told him. "I Saw you fighting the creature yesterday."

Cassiel paused as he tried to work out what she had said. "Well, I guess that didn't come to pass then." He felt oddly proud that he had somehow managed to circumvent one of the Clayr's dire predictions. That pride was abruptly snuffed out by the Ranger Gressa:

"No. She means that she had the vision yesterday."

"Really?" The Abhorsen crossed his arms, looking around the circle. "Then why won't you show me that particular vision? If I'm to fight this creature, it just might help." He was aware of the biting sarcasm in his voice, but it was better than letting them know how nervous he was.

The four women exchanged glances. Some looked guilty, others resigned. It was Saranim, Guardian of the Young, who answered him. "There is something that we have agreed never to do," she explained. "We will not show people visions of themselves. We See many possible futures, Abhorsen, and do not wish to influence decisions and inadvertently shift the future from its proper path. Do you understand?"

"I suppose I do," admitted Cassiel. Saranim's reasonable words had altered his opinion that the Clayr foisted whatever they Saw on the shoulders of the rest of the Kingdom. And it did make sense. However, he couldn't shake dark suspicions that the vision showed him being ripped to shreds by the mysterious creature, and they just didn't want to show him. "Could you at least tell me what it looks like?"

"A long, snake-like body," Neryl answered promptly. "It was covered in gleaming scales, and had feet like talons. Its eyes were yellow and slitted like a cat's."

Cassiel did not recognize the description, and continued to puzzle over it as he was led blindfolded out of the Observatory. He kept puzzling over it as he wandered absently to the kitchens, trailed by a grouchy Mogget. Food helped him think, and the dilemma the Clayr had landed him in required a five-course meal at least to resolve. It was mid-afternoon, and so the kitchens were deserted upon his arrival – except for a large black and tan dog.

He stopped short at the sight, watching in fascination as the dog stood on its hind legs and nosed through the cupboards for a tasty snack. The dog gave a satisfied growl and emerged with a side of bacon clutched in its jaws.

"I don't think the Clayr would be very happy with you," remarked Cassiel lightly as he set about finding ingredients for a sandwich.

The dog looked up from the bacon. "Then the Clayr could do a better job locking away their food. Wouldn't make much difference to me, though."

In his surprise Cassiel dropped a butter knife, wincing at the clanging sound it made. He squinted at the dog who was looking at him with a very toothy grin, her tail swaying from side to side. She was definitely a Free Magic creature of some sort, but there was something very different about her. And the collar she wore looked to be of Ghidreth's make. It was crawling with Charter Marks, many of which were familiar to the Abhorsen – spells for keeping something from a complete death – but these were not the crude bindings of a necromancer. They contained extremely complex magic that would cause the wearer to fall into some sort of stasis. It just didn't add up.

"While you stand and stare, Abhorsen, would you mind handing me that salmon?"

Cassiel absentmindedly passed the platter of fish to Mogget without looking away. The dog, for her part, grinned even wider. "I never really met one of the Abhorsen's line," she said pleasantly, pink tongue lolling. "I visited the Wallmaker for a while, but now I'm staying at the Glacier. Better food. Anyway," – the dog stuck out a foreleg and sank into what was unmistakeably a courteous bow – "Kibeth at your service, but the Clayr just call me Dog."

Cassiel was sure that if his mouth opened any wider his jaw would hit the ground. He was flabbergasted that one of the Bright Shiners would choose the shape of a regular dog and rummage through the Clayr's kitchen cupboards. His astonishment must have shown, because Mogget remarked, "I wouldn't believe it either, the way _she_ carries on."

Kibeth stared at the dwarf and growled low in her throat, hackles raised. Mogget, for his part, showed his teeth and let out a soft hiss. Not wanting to witness a fight between two such strange and powerful creatures in the Clayr's _kitchen_ of all places, Cassiel unthinkingly snapped, "Mogget, stop it!"

The dwarf glared at him and Kibeth let out a barking laugh. "Mogget! I liked your other names better. And I forgot that you serve him now."

"Lucky you," said the dwarf under his breath, and he sulkily perched on the counter to eat his salmon.

"You must have just arrived," said the dog, turning back to Cassiel. She cocked her head to the side and her ears pricked forward in eager curiosity. "The Clayr wanted to show you a vision?"

Cassiel nodded, and was struck by a sudden idea. "Perhaps you could help me," he said, slicing bread for his sandwich. "The Clayr Saw me fighting a Free Magic creature, but none of us know what it is."

"You could have asked _me_, you know," said Mogget in a loud voice, picking fish bones daintily out of his teeth. "What's the use of binding me to eternal servitude if you're going to ignore me all of the time? Not that I care, but it's insulting that the mad mutt's opinion is considered more valuable than mine."

"Hey!" Kibeth yelped. "I've been hanging around the Great Library for a while, _Mogget_, so I've probably done more reading than you anyway."

"But you are somewhat lacking in experience," the dwarf answered silkily. "Holed up in the Glacier all safe and sound. Far be it from me to dictate how you should live your life, but I've been accompanying this idiot and his foolish sire for nearly forty years now."

The dog let out an angry bark. "Well I'm older than you!" she snapped as if that settled the argument. They exchanged glares that would have caused anyone in their right mind to fall into a twitching heap.

Cassiel looked between the two of them, wondering if there was going to be yet another heated outburst. When it became clear that they had finished arguing – for now – Cassiel decided to ask the question: "The Clayr described the creature as snake-like, but with large shiny scales, taloned feet, and yellow cat-eyes. Do either of you recognize it?"

Mogget frowned in bewilderment, but Kibeth's eyes had gone very large and very round. All of a sudden she looked like a puppy that had been kicked. "I know what it is," she admitted, sounding subdued for the first time. "He was bound many years ago, just south of the Ratterlin Delta where the Wall is now. He was Walked past the Seventh Gate, but the banisher was sorely tired and could not make him go further."

Mogget's white head shot up at that, and he put aside the fish bone he had been playing with. "Why was the banisher tired?" he asked, his eyes glittering strangely.

"Because the banisher had just defeated the creature's mate and brood. The females are the fiercest, and this male was the last of his kind. He wasn't considered an immediate threat."

The dwarf tilted his head to the side and his gaze narrowed. "Then why didn't the banisher go back after recovering her strength?" he asked slyly.

Kibeth ducked her head and grumbled, "Because I forgot. Happy now?"

The smug grin on Mogget's face made even Cassiel want to clout him, let alone Kibeth. She showed remarkable restraint by letting out only a few booming barks before calming down. "But why is it being summoned after so long?" she wondered.

Cassiel scratched his head. "I think some necromancers have found its remains."

"That is an elementary mistake. You should have destroyed it when you could."

"I didn't think it would matter!" snapped Kibeth in response to Mogget's criticism. "Okay, I've made some mistakes in my time. But at least I didn't accidentally eat the Wallmaker's wind-up birdie!"

Cassiel did not even try to understand what she was talking about. But Mogget was looking murderous, so in a fit of desperation he decided to interject and change the subject. "Well, I'll be leaving for the Wall then. The Clayr Saw me fighting the creature after all, so it's important that I go as soon as I can."

"He mustn't be allowed back into Life," warned Kibeth, her brown eyes uncharacteristically solemn. "In his Death-form the creature is weaker and manageable. Sort of."

Feeling quite worried, Cassiel wondered how he could manage to fight the creature if not even Kibeth had been able to defeat it. He took a bite out of his sandwich, but tasted nothing. Chewing silently, he planned his course of action. It was late fall, so he could catch a merchant's boat to Nestowe and then travel the rest of the distance to the Wall using his fisher hawk Charterskin. The Royal Guards would let him through to Ancelstierre, and then all he had to worry about was not getting caught by any officials while over there.

"Mogget?" he said after a particularly difficult swallow. "Are you coming along for this one?"

"Oh, I think you can handle this yourself," said the dwarf airily, flicking crumbs from the countertop. "Besides, the Clayr didn't See me going with you, did they?"

"And you insulted _me_ for staying at the Glacier," said Kibeth disapprovingly. "Coward," she muttered and Mogget glared.

"It's all right," said Cassiel hastily to avert yet another argument. "He can go back to the House and oversee Vichael's lessons."

"Oh joy."

"Why, would you rather come with me? No? I didn't think so." Cassiel pushed away his half-eaten sandwich, unable to take another bite, and covered his eyes with one hand. "Charter help me," he whispered to himself. For some reason he couldn't stop thinking about Lessandra and the children.

Something cold touched the back of his other hand, and he jumped before realizing that it was Kibeth's wet nose. Concern shone in her brown eyes, and for a moment Cassiel could almost believe that she was a regular dog. He even scratched her ears, but drew back when his hand brushed her collar. He turned away, stomach churning as his thoughts turned to the inescapable encounter that lay before him. The Bright Shiner must have sensed his disquiet, because she cheerfully woofed, "Don't worry. Things have a way of turning out all right."

Cassiel forced a shaky smile, and Kibeth trotted to the kitchen door, tail wagging as if she hadn't a care in the world. Strange as it was, at that moment the man envied her. She abruptly stopped with one paw in the air, and looked over her shoulder. "For what it's worth, Abhorsen, my Binder and Weeper sisters were always much stronger than me." And with a final grin she was gone.

_A/N: And that's that. We've got five more chapters to go now. As of yet they are all in the outline stage, but I'll work on them whenever I have a spare moment. Midterms are coming up soon, so it might be a bit delayed – but I guarantee that you won't have to wait as long as you did for this chapter! Reviews, as always, are appreciated. –Sanar._


	46. A Greater Evil

_A/N: I was amazed by the awesome responses I got from you guys. Your reviews were fabulous, every one of them. And let me take this opportunity to say that I am sorry for the wait. Cassiel was just being very stubborn – blame _him

_I finally finished the last of five midterm exams. I'd rather go to the dentist five times in a row than have to go through all of that again. Am I crazy in thinking that essay questions shouldn't be posed on Biology exams? Anyway, here's the next chapter, in which Cassiel has a very tough day (even for an Abhorsen) and tackles a few different antagonists. Lucky guy. Oh yes, and we see an old face again._

**A Greater Evil**

A dark ribbon of shadow unfurled before Cassiel's feet and stretched away into the distance. With only the slightest hesitation the Abhorsen stepped onto the path that was the Fourth Gate, his sword drawn and ready. He kept his senses alert for anything that could be rushing down the path towards him in a treacherous dash for Life, but the only thing he could hear was the faint sound of rushing water. Satisfied that he was safe for the time being, Cassiel reached into his pack and took out a dried carp, ripping off an enormous bite with his teeth. His fisher hawk Charterskin always gave him peculiar cravings.

The Royal Guards at the outpost had been happy enough to let him through to Ancelstierre, once they got over the shock of seeing a bird transform into a man before their eyes. The ease of the crossing was a stroke of luck on Cassiel's part. After Javen won the match of single combat, tensions between the Kingdom and Ancelstierre had rapidly escalated. The Kingdom citizens were incensed that Sir Palidren had used a poisoned blade, and thought that the loss of his leg was well-deserved. The Ancelstierrans, for their part, were simply furious that they had lost. The knight still maintained that he hadn't known that his blade was poisoned, and to avoid a potential uprising King Dantalion had been forced to close the matter. And so it was that the Wall could only be crossed safely at the outposts, and strangers were looked upon with great suspicion on both sides.

Cassiel chewed on his carp as he scanned the path before him for possible dangers. He had seen the three necromancers in their protective ring of Free Magic fire. The Dead had been milling around aimlessly, although he did not doubt that they would spring into action to defend their masters against any foes. Cassiel had briefly considered eliminating the Dead Hands, getting past the Free Magic circle, killing the necromancers while they were still in Death, and then going on to battle the creature. Then he reflected that eliminating the creature ought to be his first priority, and that it wouldn't do to send a legion of his enemies into Death right before plunging in there himself. No, it would be better to slip into Death quickly and quietly.

So that was what the Abhorsen was doing right now. He wasn't overly concerned about his body back in Life – he had put up a strong diamond of protection some distance away from the necromancers. If he took them by surprise, hopefully he could defeat them quickly before facing the creature.

The path of dark ribbon ended at a waterclimb, and Cassiel burnt his lips as he recited the Free Magic spell that would get him through the Fifth Gate. A tentacle of water reached out of the face of the waterclimb to wrap around him, and he rose into the air. Strange as it seemed, Cassiel actually enjoyed the floating feeling he experienced whenever he crossed this gate. The ride itself did not always end as smoothly–

Cassiel was thrown forward through the waterclimb into the Sixth Precinct, and just managed not to stumble. He held out his sword warily, eyes darting to and fro. The Sixth Precinct was a shallow pool without a current, but it held a great number of Dead. He could see them too, some wandering aimlessly, some partially-submerged, and others that were clearly malevolent. They stared at him with the burning holes of their eyes, but when their gazes fell upon his sword and blue surcoat, they turned and shambled away. The Dead knew better than to cross the Abhorsen. For not the first time Cassiel was thankful for the reputation his father had built up, in Death as well as in Life.

And there they were, three tall figures with long auburn hair. Their backs were to him, and they hadn't even heard him come through the gate. Amateurs. Of course, their chanting had probably drowned out the sound of him coming through the waterclimb.

Cassiel stepped forward carefully, listening to their united voices. Every few words steam would pass their lips – he could see it float over their heads and dissipate in the cold grey air. Cassiel supposed that there were only a few spell-words among what they were saying, and that the chant was used to remember the order or to control the timing of a powerful summoning spell. So the creature was still deep in Death somewhere – good.

Taking care to move as silently as possible, Cassiel drew up behind the three necromancers. The summoning was nearly over, and they were completely focussed on the task at hand, not paying the slightest attention to their surroundings. A fatal mistake.

The sword sliced through the air, impaling one of the necromancers and killing her instantly. The others turned – her brothers, no doubt – as Cassiel withdrew his blade and let the woman's body fall soundlessly into the grey water. The younger one took one look at the swordsman before fleeing, stumbling through the water as he splashed his way back to Life. Cassiel let him go.

The remaining necromancer drew his own weapon. The two men took no notice of the Dead surrounding them, not even of the shadowy figures who watched in hungry anticipation. If the necromancer fell, then there would be one less to bind them to shameful service. If the Abhorsen fell, then the Dead would be merry.

"Our father told us about you," the necromancer said as they circled each other. "He called you a traitor to your own kind. The necromancer who went over to serve the _Charter_." The man spat out the last word like a mouthful of poison.

Cassiel gave a bland smile. "I think you have me confused with someone else," he said, but did not elaborate. Gabriel Abhorsen had never told his son about his past, and Cassiel had never asked him. "But you're right about one thing. I do serve the Charter, and I'm here to stop you from raising… whatever it is that you're trying to raise."

The necromancer grinned, and the white flash of teeth in his equally-pale face was disconcerting. "A servant," he said, tossing his sword from hand to hand with annoying insolence. "A powerful monster to do our bidding. All necromancers know of it, the legendary serpent trapped in Death long ages ago. And _we_ found the remains."

"Congratulations," said the Abhorsen coldly. And with that he charged.

The necromancer was clever; Cassiel had to give him that. His blow was parried and a well-placed foot tripped him up. By the time Cassiel had fought his way, gasping, back to his feet, the necromancer had shouted out the final words of the summoning and slashed his own arm with his sword. Dark blood spattered into the water, and with a final sarcastic wave the necromancer was running back towards Life, following the path of his brother.

For a moment Cassiel hovered, torn between pursuing the necromancer or waiting for what he knew was going to come next. In the end the Clayr's vision won out, and he stayed put, shaking water from his eyes. The spilt blood swirled into an eddy, which drained and drained until it looked as if a bottomless well had been drilled down into the water. A faint roaring sound could be heard. Something was coming back through the Sixth Gate.

It was smaller than Cassiel had imagined, but no less horrifying. Its long sinuous body was covered in burnished scales encrusted with tarry grime. It raised a talon that ended in serrated claws the colour of old bone. Two bulbous yellow eyes protruded from the sides of a triangular head, with ropes of white mucus dribbling from the corners. The Abhorsen drew back in revulsion. At his movement the creature's head snapped towards him, and it reared up as well as it could on its two legs, jaws opening to reveal a mouthful of broken teeth. It gave a snort and blasted out a cloud of steam that scalded Cassiel's eyebrows.

The Abhorsen took a step back and wondered frantically what to do. He found himself wishing that Kibeth had been more helpful and told him how to fight the ghastly thing. It lowered its twisted claws, and he watched as its two legs pulled the long sinuous body forward, closer and closer. Cassiel jumped to the side and struck out, avoiding another gust of scorching air. The sword clanged against the scales and sparks showered from the contact, sizzling as they touched the water. Cassiel stared at the creature's thick scales. The sword had made the smallest of scratches on the armour, and it would take hours to hack through it.

"Charter take you," he snarled, and flung out his hand. A ball of golden fire left his fingers, and the creature hissed as it struck its side. "Oh, so you don't like Charter magic?" asked Cassiel mockingly. He nearly paid for his cheek when the creature whirled and shot out a serrated claw. It caught on the front of his surcoat and ripped to show the gethre armour underneath.

The Abhorsen sprang back and gathered his wits to perform another spell, but something caught his eye as he raised his hand. A thin black string as fine as spider silk had been knotted onto the creature's tail. That string was slack now, and in a moment of shocked realization Cassiel knew that something else had been dragged into the Sixth Precinct during the summoning. Now it was loose and probably scrambling hungrily towards Life – something that was meant to stay deep within Death and was cunning enough to hitch a ride.

His few seconds of distraction were interrupted as the creature lunged forward. One of its talons swiped at him, and Cassiel screamed as four long claws punctured his armour and sank deep into his thigh. He jerked back instinctively and the jagged hooks ripped free, taking fragments of tissue and gethre scales with them. The thing gave a shrill howl of disappointment as he staggered away. Cassiel was shaken. His powerful sword had little effect, and his supposedly-indestructible gethre armour could be pierced with ease. The dangers of this creature lay not in any special powers it possessed, but in its exceptional strength. He shuddered to think of the damage it could inflict in Life when mastering a superior form.

Cassiel backed away, sheathing his sword so as to leave both hands free for casting spells. He was beginning to understand this creature. It could not be defeated by things made by hand, even if they were imbued with the power of the Charter. He needed to fight it with the strength of pure Charter magic. That was how Kibeth must have fought it so long ago, and won.

The Bright Shiner's parting words emerged from the depths of his memory: _"For what it's worth, Abhorsen, my Binder and Weeper sisters were always much stronger than me."_ Cassiel frowned. Could it be that the Dog had actually been helping him, and he had only been too blind to notice? Her Binder and Weeper sisters… Saraneth and Astarael.

Fumbling at his bandolier Cassiel drew the two bells, nearly dropping them in his haste. His wounded leg was trembling beneath him, and the shaking extended to his hands so that he was in danger of sounding the bells accidentally. The intricate diagrams of a page he had painstakingly copied from his father's notes swam to the forefront of his mind. He swung Saraneth in a figure-eight above his head, and simultaneously rang Astarael in a circle in front of him. The complex motions required nearly all of his concentration, and he barely noticed when the call of the seventh bell caused him to take several large steps forward. What he did notice was that the creature had frozen and was staring at him out of one slitted eye. Cassiel stared back at it, not daring to blink. The pain in his leg subsided as he concentrated on imposing his will on the creature. Slowly, incredibly, it was backing away. A circle of water around them was draining, and together they passed through the Seventh Gate.

Cassiel felt the familiar current twisting around his legs, but he never faltered as he rang the bells together. His eyes were locked with those of the creature as they made their way swiftly towards the line of red fire that marked the next gate. The Abhorsen instinctively pronounced the Free Magic spell, and the line of flames shivered up into a narrow arch.

The Eighth Precinct was much more perilous than the last two. Patches of flame floated eerily on the surface of the water, moving with no particular current and flaring up out of nowhere. The Dead around them shrieked as they were scorched by fire. Sweat poured down Cassiel's face as he fought to control the bells. Blood streamed down his leg and into the water, glittering slightly with the power of the Charter.

And there it was before him. He could see it clearly now, a wall of darkness blacker than deepest night. The creature was only five steps away… three… It had stopped still now, and was resisting the command of Saraneth and the call of Astarael. "Go," said Cassiel through gritted teeth. "I am the Abhorsen, and you are not welcome here. Retreat and find your final place beyond the Ninth Gate." He rang the bells with all his might and watched the creature's tail sink into the wall of darkness. Then the length of its sinuous body disappeared. Now only its head and talons were protruding, and it gave a final screeching howl before fleeing into the shadows.

Cassiel's exhausted brain failed to notice that he had followed the creature, and he stilled the bells to find himself engulfed in blackness. His father had told him never to go past the Eighth Gate, and here he was, so close to stepping through. He could not feel his body and after a moment of blind panic recalled the words that would return him to the Eighth Precinct.

Cassiel stumbled out into the cold grey light, returning the bells to their pouches. Now that his duty was over every ache and pain returned to him. His leg was in agony, and he tore a strip from his tattered surcoat to bind it. Somehow he managed to make it out of the precinct without getting burned to ashes by the floating plots of fire.

It was only when he reached the quiet Sixth Precinct that he remembered the broken string. The creature had dragged something with it out of the deep reaches of Death. Filled with new urgency, Cassiel rushed back towards Life. He practically leaped down the waterclimb, and was dismayed to see that the Fifth Gate was still intact, which meant that someone – or something – was using it.

He hurried along the narrow way, pausing only to turn back and shove a pursuing misshapen Dead thing into the waters below. He paused in the fast-flowing waters of the Fourth Precinct, and lunged to catch something as it swept by. Cassiel turned the body over to look into the face of the necromancer he had fought. He sensed that the spirit had left the body. It was an empty shell, drained so that whatever had killed him could move further towards Life.

Cassiel sped up in his pursuit, hoping to catch up with the killer before it reached the border. His hopes were dashed when he came upon the body of the youngest necromancer, the one who had fled as soon as he had seen the Abhorsen. He was floating face-down in the First Precinct. Whatever had killed the two brothers was in Life now. Cassiel did not hesitate, and threw himself at the barrier.

Coming out of Death so quickly was disorienting, and for a moment Cassiel panicked before he realized exactly where he was. His clothing cracked as he started to move, brushing ice from his face and hands and drawing his sword. His diamond of protection was still intact, but he quickly dissolved it, moving towards where he had seen the three necromancers. The Dead were running wild without direction, but Cassiel left them alone for now. The Dead he could deal with later. He needed to save what little strength he had for whatever had broken into Life.

Reaching out with his senses, Cassiel felt a strange presence. It was similar to those emitted by the Dead Hands, but it resonated more deeply and with greater intensity. Cassiel hurried forward, his boots crunching on the pine needles.

He spotted a man-like form walking upright between the trees. It seemed to sense his gaze and turned to face him. The figure clearly once was a man, and Cassiel's gaze immediately fixed upon a spiky necklace of Free Magic runes, though why anyone would wear such a nauseating piece of jewellery was beyond his comprehension. Upon more careful examination, however, the Abhorsen could see that it wasn't a necklace at all. The runes constantly shifted and changed, encircling the man's pale throat. The runes attached the severed head to the figure's neck. A severed head?

Cassiel's eyes widened before darting to the hilt of the man's sword, and sure enough a spiralling symbol met his eyes, a symbol that had become hateful to him. He recognized the broad-shouldered figure. Something had chewed on the head while it bobbed around Death and the morphological powers of the Fifth Precinct had altered the man's appearance, but that lopsided grin was sickeningly familiar.

"Raum," the Abhorsen whispered.

"Hello, Cassiel," said the necromancer. "What, you never thought you'd see me again? You should have remembered what your father taught you and killed me properly. Lucky you were too preoccupied with the old man to ring the bells. Lucky for me, that is."

"How did you –"

"Survive? It was very difficult, I assure you. It took over a year to find my head. Then I roamed the Precincts of Death, killing other creatures to gain their strength. My lucky day came when I found the Scourge sleeping beneath the waters of the Eighth Precinct."

"The Scourge?"

"Your father didn't tell you about it? It was a popular legend among necromancers. Centuries ago the Scourge was walked to the Eighth Precinct, and slumbered there waiting to be summoned. Nobody knew where to find the remains, but there is always the odd ambitious necromancer looking for them. I knew all I had to do was anchor myself to the Scourge until someone found its body. So I attached the line, and waited."

"You have learned patience in Death, Raum."

"Those who do not learn patience go mad, little Abhorsen."

"How fortunate, then, that you did not have a mind to lose in the first place."

Raum let out a growl deep in his throat, and Cassiel was startled when steam and sparks poured out of his mouth. "Careful, boy. You don't want to go the same way as your father."

Cassiel's hand convulsively clenched the hilt of his sword. He wanted nothing more than to attack this twisted being that Raum had become, but he was painfully aware of his injuries and exhaustion. Perhaps the necromancer had not noticed…

"What are you doing, Raum?" he asked quietly, trying to buy some time. "Are you going to kill me?" They faced each other among the trees surrounded by shambling corpses, and Cassiel gestured at them as they lurched by. "I have fought the Dead before, and won."

"Dead?" the necromancer scoffed. "I am not one of your Dead Hands, little Abhorsen. Those bumbling, mindless carcasses are enslaved to somebody _else_'s will. Oh no, I am a far greater evil than they."

"Because you retain your will?" asked Cassiel.

"More than that."

He barely managed to roll out of the way as a streak of scarlet fire shot past. Cassiel tasted an acrid metal tang in the back of his mouth. Raum could still use Free Magic! Cursing inwardly, the Abhorsen fought his way to his feet. His leg chose that moment to betray him and buckled underneath his weight. He crashed to his knees, just catching himself against a tree and scraping his hand in the process.

"Finished already?" the necromancer scoffed, advancing on Cassiel. "Pity. Even your father put up a better fight than that."

Red-hot anger flashed behind Cassiel's eyes, and before he knew it he was on his feet again, battling Raum for all he was worth. The necromancer was as skilled a swordsman as he remembered, but Cassiel's tattered gethre armour saved him from serious injury more than once. In addition, this Dead Raum was a great deal stronger than he had been when alive, which was truly saying something. Weak and wounded as he was, Cassiel knew that his chances weren't very good.

Raum neatly parried a wild stab of his, reached out, and grabbed the back of his head. The next thing Cassiel knew was considerable pain as his face was smashed against the trunk of a tree. He toppled to the ground, sprawling over the twisted roots and landing awkwardly on his side. Stars flashed before his eyes; he could not see. Cassiel leaned his cheek against the cold October bark, listening to the crunch of pine needles under Raum's boots as the necromancer came closer.

"Giving up, Abhorsen?"

That was what he'd been waiting for. Cassiel swiped out with his sword, aiming for the direction of the voice, and was rewarded with a vicious howl of pain. The stars faded from his eyes and he blinked, staring at where his blade had sliced through the warped flesh. Raum shed his useless body, fleeing on the wind as a thing made of black smoke.

Cassiel peered after where his enemy had disappeared for a long time. He hadn't seen Raum since the day Vichael had been born – over thirteen years ago. He was awoken from his contemplation by one of the Dead Hands nearly stepping on him. With a loud groan, Cassiel pushed himself into a sitting position. He forced his mind to focus, although his head throbbed painfully in protest, and drew his bells to send the Dead to rest.

When he was finally alone in the woods, Cassiel allowed his exhaustion to overcome him and collapsed. His thigh was mangled and he would likely have the scars for the rest of his life. His scratched hand ached and his face was covered in blood. He felt his nose and winced; it was tender, but not broken. He let his hand fall and sighed, lying there on the ground and relishing the cool prickly feeling against his skin. Later when he heard footsteps approaching, he groaned and covered his ears. It was only when someone prodded him with the toe of a boot that he finally looked up.

He was surrounded by six scruffy-looking men, all of whom were staring down at him in utter astonishment. Cassiel supposed he must truly be a sight to see, with his ragged armour, wounded leg, and the piles of Dead scattered around him. He attempted a weak grin, which turned into a grimace of pain.

The men drew back in alarm. One of them plucked up his courage and cleared his throat. "Ahem! You're – ah – under arrest." His ginger moustache twitched nervously.

This was the very last thing Cassiel had expected to hear. He had become accustomed to villagers thanking him for banishing the Dead. Having faced more foes that day than most people did in a lifetime, he was amazed by this unkind reception. "I – beg your pardon?" he stuttered.

"You're under arrest," said the man with growing confidence. He seemed rather pleased with this pronouncement, and hooked his thumbs into his belt, looking around at his companions. "Well? Arrest him, lads!"

"I – ow, watch that! – I don't understand," said Cassiel as he was prodded to his feet by the blunt ends of spears. "What am I supposed to have done?"

The men stared at him as if he was mad, and the leader rolled his eyes. "You're a necromancer," he said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Cassiel reflected that with his bell-bandolier and the mass of corpses strewn about, it did look rather incriminating.

"I'm not a necromancer," said Cassiel, but his words fell on deaf ears. Two men stood on either side of him, two behind him, and two in front. The men at his back prodded him with their spears again. "Will you cut it out?" Cassiel snapped. "I can't walk very well, as you may have noticed." He pointed at his wounded leg.

One of the men sniggered. "Couldn't control the thing you summoned, eh?" Cassiel could have walloped him.

"Let's go, let's go," said the leader, setting off with a swagger.

Cassiel sighed and followed, sporting a pronounced limp. "I'm no necromancer," he repeated as reasonably as he could in his condition. "I am Cassiel Abhorsen, an enemy of the necromancers. Surely you've heard of me?"

The leader stopped and turned around, face scrunching up in thought over that ginger moustache. Cassiel held his breath, willing the leader to remember something about him. "Nah," said the leader finally, turning around and setting off again. "Can't say I have."

Cassiel was nearly dancing up and down with frustration. Of course, these men were from a small village on the fringes of civilization, and wouldn't have heard much about the politics between the two countries. He contemplated using magic to escape, but decided that even if he did succeed it wouldn't improve the delicate relationship between the Kingdom and Ancelstierre.

"Listen," he said in growing desperation, "I am the Abhorsen. I am a very important person in the Kingdom, on speaking terms with King Dantalion himself. You must have heard of me."

"Wait! I think I _have_ heard of you," said the man the Cassiel's right. He grinned at the Abhorsen, who nearly cried with relief. "I went to Corvere a few years ago to see my sister, and visited Moot Hall. Chief Minister Tralusan was giving a speech and he mentioned a Lord Abhorsen, I remember now. Called him a madman, he did." Cassiel put his face into his hands. This was going nowhere. Perhaps it would be better for everyone if he just stayed silent.

Cassiel was exhausted when he finally stumbled into the village. Night had fallen, and he stared out of the window at the yellow moon as the mayor told him that the punishment for raising the Dead was life in a spelled prison. He barely reacted when they took away his weapons and bells, and watched in a stupor as his leg was bandaged.

It was only when he was pushed into his cell across from a noisy drunkard that he did anything. Cassiel didn't care how remote this place was. If he broke out now, word of his escape would eventually reach Tralusan's ears and cause a scandal that would lead to more problems for the Kingdom. The time just after peace was the most fragile.

He sat down on his bunk, checking that nobody was watching (the drunk didn't count), and reached into his pocket. Cassiel withdrew a square of silver and breathed upon it, whispering a quiet spell. The fog swirled before clearing, and he looked into a familiar face. "Your Majesty," he whispered, "I think I need your help…"

_A/N: I enjoyed looking back in _Abhorsen_ and researching the Nine Precincts. Honestly, how does Garth Nix come up with all of this great stuff? I found the creature a bit hard to write; humans are so much more expressive than dead dragony things! Reviews, as always, are welcome. Four chapters to go!_


	47. The Closing of Gates

_A/N:__Thanks for all of the wonderful reviews, and a big hello to new readers. __This chapter was a very long time in coming, and for that I truly apologise. I must be the world's greatest procrastinator, and it really would be a shame if I stopped writing after 46 chapters with only 4 to go, right? So I'm going to finish this story, even if it kills me... or if it maims me, at the very least._

_To make up for the delay, this chapter is extra-long. That's something, isn't it? Enjoy! _

**The Closing of Gates**

Captain Javen felt very conspicuous, something that he never enjoyed. The Captain of the Royal Guard was traditionally a figure that stood silent and watchful in the background, only to step forward when called upon by the monarch. And here he was standing in the middle of a muddy road watching Farelle argue with the Bailiff and the Mayor.

A handful of Royal Guards watched the proceedings from their post beside the humble town jail, none of them making any move to call him away, damn them. Prince Andromis was present as well, and what with the livery and swords and cloaks and crowns scattered throughout their company, they couldn't have looked more out of place. A curious crowd had gathered, and Javen kept his left hand firmly on his sword, his eyes constantly moving. The villagers did not look threatening, but you could never tell. The fiasco in Holehallow had taught him that much.

Their reception in the town had been far from warm. People had alternately stared openly at them, or hurried off the street at their approach. When they reached the jailhouse, the Bailiff had made the monumental mistake of addressing Prince Andromis. Farelle coolly informed the Bailiff that as the Crown Princess of the Kingdom, she was the one in charge of the delegation. The poor man had panicked and sent for the Mayor. The Mayor, upon arriving, had scanned the strange group before turning to Andromis for an explanation. Farelle furiously explained for the second time that she was the leader, and nearly drew her weapon in a fit of rage. The frightened Mayor then sent for Lord Willet, who was luckily in town that day enjoying a pint at the inn. Farelle took the opportunity to lecture both Bailiff and Mayor on their callous disrespect, going on to condemn all men in general for their prejudiced attitudes.

Realizing that Farelle was much too involved in her argument to notice him, Javen abandoned his post and strolled over to the Charter-spelled jail window. Cassiel nodded at him through the bars. "How is it in there?" Javen asked.

The dark-haired man shrugged. "Not too bad. At least I have a cot to sleep on, which is a sight better than a patched tent on the forest floor."

Javen noticed that the other man was cradling one of his arms to his chest. "What is wrong with your arm?" He had never been one for subtlety.

"This?" The Abhorsen looked slightly embarrassed. "I was starting to get worried that nobody would come and get me, so I planned an escape." Javen wondered where this was going, and knew that whatever it was, it was likely to be entertaining. "I made a Charterskin, but my fisher hawk form was too big to fit through the bars and I hurt my wing – er, arm – when I flew into the window. I should have learned a different Charterskin, like a moth or a grasshopper."

Javen struggled not to laugh as he pictured the bird-Abhorsen slamming into the window. He considered making some clever remark, but decided to stick with practicality. "A moth Charterskin would not work anyway, with the spells on the windows. And breaking those spells would cause a diplomatic incident at best."

Cassiel looked thoughtful. "Yes, that's why I wouldn't break out. I know how strained relations are between the Kingdom and Ancelstierre. I hope the child gets your sharp mind, Javen. How is Farelle, anyway?"

Captain Javen shuffled his feet. "Well, you might have noticed that she is a bit testier than usual." He looked over at where Farelle was scolding the Bailiff and the Mayor, poor fellows. "It was completely different before she was with child."

It was true. These days, Farelle spent half of her time in a state of maternal bliss and the other half snapping at everyone. She often blamed Javen for her condition, which was grossly unfair, but the Captain had soon learned to bite his tongue during these moments. On a more positive note, the prospect of grandchildren had made King Dantalion act a bit nicer towards him. Or perhaps the King still felt guilty about the loss of his arm.

Life with only one arm had taken the Captain of the Guard some getting used to. He could wield a sword in his left hand now just as well as he had with his right, but it meant that he couldn't cast spells at the same time. Because of this the King forbade him to leave on missions. Javen and Farelle had appealed to the Wallmakers for aid, and Masters Felio and Nehima were crafting him an artificial arm. For the time being Javen neatly pinned up the sleeve of his tunic to hide the stump. The missing limb sometimes tingled or burned, a most peculiar sensation. Of course, Javen had told none of this to Farelle, who had more than enough to worry about.

"Ah, here he is!" the Bailiff practically shouted in relief, and Javen looked up to see a bearded man with broad shoulders approaching the little group. Javen left the jail window and strolled closer, and Prince Andromis also drew near.

"What is going on here?" Lord Willet was gazing around at the scarlet and gold host in surprise. He glanced at the Royal guards before sizing up the three Kingdom citizens standing before him. His gaze immediately fixed upon Prince Andromis, and the Lord politely asked, "Did you send for me, sir?"

"Blood and fire!" Farelle swore, startling everyone. "Do I have to go through the whole thing again?" Javen put a hand on his wife's shoulder. She shrugged it off. "_I_ sent for you, Lord Willet. Me. Crown Princess Farelle of the Kingdom."

The Lord concealed his surprise well. "Can you prove who you are, Lady?"

Farelle stared at him as if he was particularly dim-witted. "Do you really think that I wear a crown, dress in red and gold, and walk around surrounded by Royal Guards just for a lark?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Javen saw Prince Andromis bury his face in his hand. The Captain of the Guard privately agreed: Farelle was handling this terribly. Javen approached Lord Willet in an attempt to rescue the rapidly-deteriorating situation. "Please excuse her." He spoke so quietly that his wife could not hear him. "She is with child, you see." An expression of dawning came over the other man's bearded face.

The Bailiff was scratching his head, "I didn't know there was a Crown Princess. I honestly thought it was a Crown Prince."

"That's – bloody – it!" Farelle went for her long dagger, but Javen managed to stop her from drawing it, which was twice as difficult with only one arm.

The Prince took this outburst as his cue to step in. He showed Willet the golden tower symbol on his sword, quietly explained who he was, and attested to the truth of his sister's claims. This apparently satisfied Lord Willet, as he turned to Farelle with a forced smile to hear her out.

"Lord Willet," said Farelle, calm once more. "You know why we have come here."

"I do," the man acknowledged, bowing courteously. The sanctimonious smile on his face made Javen uneasy. "The good Mayor informed me that they caught a man claiming to be Lord Abhorsen. I sent a message to the Chief Minister, of course. Sir Tralusan is on his way here as we speak."

"Tralusan?" asked Javen, exchanging a worried glance with Andromis. This was the worst thing that could possibly happen. A political mess was exactly what they wanted to avoid. For their part, Princess Farelle and Lord Willet were smiling at each other like two vipers just about to strike.

Farelle took another step closer to the Lord. Javen watched her closely, but she made no move to draw her weapon. "Your devotion to the Chief Minister is commendable," she said sweetly, "but your Bailiff had no right to arrest Lord Cassiel Abhorsen. You jailed him without trial and are thus holding him illegally."

"On the contrary," said Willet, all smiles and courtesy, "the evidence was overwhelmingly against Mr. Abhorsen, and the Mayor has the right to mete out punishment without formal trial. The penalty for practicing necromancy is life in a prison cell spelled by a Master Charter Mage, or death. Be grateful that the Mayor decided to be lenient in this case."

Javen would have crossed his arms if he had two. "Lord Abhorsen does not practice necromancy," he said. "That is a branch of Free Magic, and the Abhorsen is in the service of the Charter."

Lord Willet scratched his beard and smirked in a way that made Javen grind his teeth. "Perhaps, but we are in Ancelstierre, and we must obey Ancelstierran law. The Abhorsen's work is not recognized by the Moot. In any case, he has been pronounced a dangerous individual, and I consider it my duty to keep him confined until the Chief Minister can decide his fate."

Farelle snorted, planting her hands on her hips. "You think you can outmanoeuvre me?" she sneered, all semblance of politeness suddenly gone. "I know the laws just as well as you do, Lord Willet, maybe even better. The fact remains that Cassiel Abhorsen is a Lord, and you cannot incarcerate a member of the nobility. At most they can be kept under house arrest, and his house happens to be in the Kingdom."

For the first time Lord Willet seemed to be lost for words. Javen tried not to look too pleased, although he couldn't say the same about his men. The guards were openly grinning at the victory of their Princess. The crowd of villagers were watching this battle of words with wide eyes.

"Tralusan can argue with me later if he wants," continued Farelle, "but we are taking Lord Abhorsen away with us. Now."

Willet had been bested and he knew it. He motioned with his hand, and the Bailiff went to release the prisoner. Cassiel emerged from the building awkwardly buckling on his sword and bells. Javen noticed that he was limping, and his eyes flicked to the bandage on the other man's leg. The King had not been forthcoming about what the Abhorsen had done before landing in prison, and Javen was quite curious.

They walked down the road in silence, and passed through the busy marketplace on their way to the gate. Javen knew that word of this confrontation would travel fast, and that the Chief Minister would be infuriated once he arrived to find Cassiel gone.

Captain Javen made his way to his wife's side, intending to have a quiet word about their situation. But as he opened his mouth, he was interrupted by a particularly loud cry:

"Fruit for sale! Exotic fruit from the South! Julice gives the best prices!"

Farelle's large blue eyes lit up. She veered off the side of the road to the fruit vendor and her wares as if pulled by an invisible rope. "Do you have anything sour?" she asked eagerly.

Mistress Julice reached behind her stall and pulled out a basket of limes with a flourish. Javen didn't think them very impressive. They were small and shrivelled, and for a moment he thought he saw something with many legs crawling over them.

But a hungry look had come to Farelle's eyes. "Javen, buy the lot," she commanded.

The Captain raised his eyebrow but complied, knowing better than to get between a woman with child and the food she craved. They walked down the street, Javen holding the basket and feeling ridiculous, trying vainly to ignore the snickers of the Prince and the Abhorsen behind him. Thankfully the guards were looking elsewhere out of politeness and consideration for their Captain. Farelle was absent-mindedly peeling the limes and gobbling up the juicy flesh, leaving a trail of green rinds behind her. She looked about the furthest thing from a Crown Princess at the moment.

"Farelle," said Javen quietly, "you must realize how odd you look."

"Hmm?" The Princess spat out a seed.

Javen glanced at either side of the muddy road. "You are getting stared at. And it is not only because you are the King's daughter."

"Oh, who _cares_ what other people think," said Farelle crossly, reaching into the basket for another lime.

"Well," said Javen, striving to keep his voice pleasant, "we represent the Kingdom, and Tralusan will hear every detail of our visit. We could try to conduct ourselves with a greater degree of… pride."

Farelle looked up sharply, and lime juice dripped down her chin. "Pr–" She paused to swallow. "Pride?" she exclaimed, throwing the peel into the dirt. "_Pride_? Are you saying that I am an _embarrassment_ to you?" His wife was glaring at him as she put her hands on her hips. They had stopped in the middle of the road, and now even the guardsmen couldn't pretend that they weren't watching.

Javen wondered how the situation could have deteriorated so rapidly. "Farelle my love –" The Princess threw up her hands and stormed off. Javen dropped the basket and hurried to catch up, nearly tripping over the spilled limes. "Dearest – that's not what I think at all. You've got it wrong –"

Farelle swung around to face him, and Javen skidded to an abrupt halt. "This is all _your_ fault," she snapped.

The Captain was flabbergasted. "_My_ fault?" he yelped, finally raising his voice. All over the market heads swung in their direction, but he paid them no mind.

"Yes," hissed Farelle so viciously that Javen instinctively reached out with a soothing hand. At least, he reached out with what was left of his upper right arm. It didn't have quite the same effect. "If you had not gotten me with child in the first place," the Princess raged, "I wouldn't be in this condition, embarrassing my husband and Kingdom – _isn't that right_?"

Knowing better than to answer that question, Javen made an enormous effort to soften his tone of voice. He even attempted a smile. "Farelle – darling –"

"Do_ not_ call me darling!" his wife yelled, drawing startled looks from the innocent townsfolk who had been unfortunate enough to go to the market that day. "I will _never _forgive you for what you said! You can sleep in a different tent tonight!" She turned to Prince Andromis and the Abhorsen who were – unsuccessfully – trying to hide broad grins. The Royal Guards were showing similar signs of mirth. "And don't you _dare _laugh," she told them all, clenching her hands into fists. "I could have the lot of you thrown into the dungeons." That certainly wiped the smiles off their faces.

It was a subdued group that left the town a few minutes later. The gates slammed behind them, and Javen listened to the sounds of bars being put in place and locks being fastened. It was almost insulting. But then, Farelle's conduct had not improved their already-abysmal reputation.

The guards who had been left outside with the horses had many questions for their fellows, and Javen could hear the words "jail", "argue", and "limes" among their hushed conversations. He pretended not to hear them, and brought his horse into step next to the Prince's. Farelle and Cassiel were leading the group, and the guards dispersed themselves, alert and watchful as ever.

"Are you avoiding my sister?"

Javen narrowed his eyes, but he knew that even the darkest glare wouldn't wipe the smirk off the Prince's face. "So are you," he pointed out. "What happened to the legendary courage of the Scarlet Company?"

The Prince shrugged. "We soldiers are brave, not suicidal," he pointed out. "Besides, I thought it was the duty of the guards to see to the needs of the Royal Family."

"Yes, well, Farelle needs to be left alone at the moment."

"She does at that." The Prince's grey eyes suddenly flicked up to the sky, and Javen followed his gaze, spotting a small dark shape circling overhead. Suddenly Andromis let out a piercing whistle, grinning apologetically at the guards who had looked around in panic. A red-tailed hawk plummeted towards them. She pulled up to alight on the Prince's arm, and the young man transferred her to his shoulder. "Farelle botched the diplomatic negotiations, didn't she?" he asked casually as he stroked the bird's feathery breast.

Captain Javen sighed. "I'm afraid so. She ruined relations between the Kingdom and Ancelstierre in a single power move, all in a little northern village."

"I don't know why father sent Farelle to handle this. She hasn't exactly been herself lately, and it seemed a bit excessive sending both of you."

"The King foresaw that there might problems getting the Abhorsen out of prison."

Andromis shook his blonde head. "But surely father knew that sending the Crown Princess would cause even more of a fuss."

"Of course. I believe that the King was using this situation to his advantage."

The Prince glanced over at Javen with narrowed eyes. "What do you mean, Captain? None of us want any more problems with Tralusan."

"No we don't, and we had to make that clear. Ancelstierre needs to know that the Kingdom will take care of its citizens, and that the best thing Tralusan can do is leave us alone."

The Prince's eyes suddenly widened. "Oh, I see. Well, Farelle certainly made things very clear to Lord Willet. Clearer than father must have intended, anyhow."

Javen couldn't hold back a grin. "Especially in her present state."

"No doubt. Poor Cassiel had no idea what we were about to do, did he?"

"Not the slightest."

Andromis frowned in sudden thought. "If he'd known that we were risking his freedom just to make a point –"

"We did not risk his freedom," Javen interrupted firmly. "I am certain that he would have been released, no matter Farelle's reception."

The Prince shrugged, and his hawk flapped her wings irritably. "If you say so, Javen. I only came along to watch."

The Captain glanced around to make sure that nobody was listening. "I've been meaning to ask you, Andromis – why did you volunteer to come with us? You've never shown interest in Ancelstierre."

A closed expression stole over the Prince's face. "Let's just say that I needed a break from a few things back home," he mumbled.

"But you're currently on leave."

"And what better way to spend that extra time than with my family?"

"How about with your mysterious lady?" Javen countered, and the look on the Prince's face told him everything. "Is she the one you are running away from? A great big Second Lieutenant like you?"

"How did you –"

"Farelle keeps asking when we'll meet her, and you keep changing the subject. I wondered for quite some if there was trouble between you two."

Andromis sighed, staring at his hands that were holding the reins. He looked about as miserable as Javen had ever seen him. "You have no idea."

The Captain winced sympathetically. "That bad?"

"Worse. You can't possibly know how bad it is."

Javen was surprised by the bitterness in the younger man's voice. "I might know a bit. I have experience. You are only twenty-four, and I was betrothed when I was twenty-five."

The Prince snorted. "But you weren't betrothed to this monster," he muttered under his breath.

Captain Javen blinked in surprise. "That is what you call your beloved?"

"Yes!" Andromis burst out. "Because that is exactly what she is! A monster, an ogress, a fiendish woman who thinks she is right about everything and that the rest of the world ought to kiss her overly-large feet." Tired of being jostled about by her master, Ruby spread her wings and took off, clipping the Prince's ear with her wing. Andromis scowled at his hawk, and Javen decided to get the conversation back on track.

"So she is a little bossy," he allowed.

"Bossy?" scoffed Andromis. "She is downright tyrannical! She never listens to what I say, and it is not just because of her noble blood. She is my height and age, and that makes her think that she has the right to control me. Where are all the younger, shorter women who will look up to me and accept my superior knowledge and experience?" He sighed, and Javen looked on in shocked silence. "I wish I could at least look _down_ on her when we argue. That would make things so much easier. Perhaps I should get a box to stand on…"

"Or perhaps you could give in a little and let her think that she is in charge," suggested Javen. "I find that works quite well."

The Prince looked sheepish. "I find her rather – intimidating. If I give her an inch she'll devour me like a side of beef."

"You have my sympathies."

"And her attitude's not the half of it," said Andromis heatedly. Javen was getting the distinct impression that the Prince was venting feelings that had been struggling to get out for some time. "We fight all the time – and I mean _all _the time. We argue and yell, and Zavebe throws things when she's angry. She has to buy new ornaments and dishes to replace what she breaks. She is absolutely the furthest thing from a lady alive in this Kingdom – including that Stilken rumoured to be inhabiting the Sindlewood."

"I admit that your words confound me," said Javen. He decided to ask what he had been wondering since the Prince's tirade began. "If you fight with her so much, why do you persist in courting her?"

"I do not know!" Andromis burst out, and a few guards turned to look at him curiously. Javen glared at them and they obediently returned to scanning the surrounding trees. "I have tried to leave her, you know," the Prince was babbling. "I would go off after a very bad fight determined to forget her and move on. But for reasons beyond my understanding, I always return to her manor home in the North to see her whenever I am on leave. Then to complicate things even further, there is that smarmy Lord Deachan always hanging around trying to move in on her whenever I am away. I hate the whole situation! It is driving me mad! What is wrong with me?"

Javen chuckled, and the Prince glared at him so darkly that he stopped laughing at once. "Nothing is wrong with you, Andromis," he said gently. "It is called being in love."

"Ha! Well, love should not be like this, like fighting a battle against a vicious enemy without gaining any ground, and getting only a hundred bloody wounds to show for it." The Prince slumped on his saddle, scowling at his horse's mane.

"Nobody ever said that love would be easy," the Captain pointed out.

Andromis shook his head. "Do not preach that nonsense to me, Javen. Yes, you and my sister have troubles, but they are nothing like this. This cannot be normal."

Captain Javen leaned over, intent on bestowing a bit of wisdom on his young brother-in-law. "Your relationship would not be normal if it were painless. Look at your parents. We never see them fight, but even they must have problems. All couples do."

"They only never fight because my mother is very accommodating, and my father knows when he is beaten."

"You see then?"

The Prince chewed on his bottom lip in thought. "There must be someone… I know!" He snapped his fingers. "_Cassiel!_ The Abhorsen must have the most perfect marriage in the Kingdom."

Javen glanced up at where the object of their conversation was riding at the head of the group. "It does surprise me that a man can be away from home so long and maintain a loving wife and two children," he admitted.

"I suppose Cassiel is naturally good with women." Andromis sighed with envy. "Just look at how well he can handle Farelle. She would have bitten off our heads by now. But maybe that is just because Farelle had a crush on him when she was a teenager."

This was news to Javen.

He stared at the front of the group where his wife was riding next to Cassiel Abhorsen, and what he saw shocked him: Farelle had put her hand on the other man's thigh! He paused for a moment in astonishment, then heeled his horse sharply. As he drew up behind them, Farelle was saying, "…nearly there now." She glanced back and saw him, and to his utter surprise she smiled, keeping her hand on the Abhorsen's thigh. "I was just telling Cassiel that we are nearly at the Wall," she said. "His leg is paining him dreadfully."

Javen glanced down at the Abhorsen's wound, and saw the glitter of healing Charter marks trickling out of his wife's fingers. All at once he felt completely foolish. He was saved having to say anything by the return of Lieutenant Staunis, who had been scouting ahead.

"Captain!" said the guard, looking distraught. "I saw the gate. It has been broken through."

Javen sprang into action. "Lieutenant Oscaer, take command," he called before urging his horse to a gallop. He and Staunis made it to the Wall in minutes, but the sight that awaited them caused Javen to freeze. Then he remembered himself and hurried to dismount one-handedly, nearly falling on his head in the process.

The two guards drew their swords as they cautiously approached the Wall, which was complete at this section. On the Ancelstierran side was the crude wall of earth and stones that had served as a barrier before the Wallmakers' time. Beside this stood a small hut, where men had been posted to keep an eye on the traffic across the Wall.

The men were all dead. Their bodies were burnt nearly beyond recognition, and were crawling with insects. Javen hastily averted his eyes and walked up to the Wall. The gate put in by the Wallmakers was hanging off its hinges, and Javen pushed it gently to the side. He stepped through and looked about. "Lieutenant!" he called.

Staunis got up from where he'd been examining the dead men, and jogged over. "Yes Captain?"

Javen gestured wordlessly. The Lieutenant's eyes went so wide that the whites could be seen all around. "Oh Charter…" Staunis hurried over to the four Royal Guards who lay on the forest floor. Javen did not need a closer look to see that they had been burned as well. He felt his eyes start to sting and rubbed at them angrily. He had known these men.

Trying to avoid looking at the dead Guards, Captain Javen set about examining the surroundings for clues as to who had done this. Farelle and the others had just arrived when he found a message on the trunk of a tree.

"Over here," he called. Farelle, Prince Andromis, the Abhorsen, and Staunis gathered around close. He nodded, and each of them touched their own forehead Charter Mark in turn, and then the tree. Three golden marks flared briefly on the bark and faded away again.

Javen heard faint screams in the background, and a familiar voice spoke suddenly in his ear. It was Lieutenant Warrel who had been placed in command of the post. "Take this message to the Family! Something broke through the gate, all shadow and fire. It burned the –"

That was it. Captain Javen took a deep, steadying breath. Staunis was pale, and Farelle and Andromis looked stunned, but the Abhorsen looked the worst of them all. The man's skin was paper-white and his lips trembled. Javen thought he looked like he was about to fall over.

"I know who did this," said Cassiel. His voice was hoarse with fatigue or dread. "I came through this gate only days ago, and went into Death not two leagues from here. I completed my mission, but someone managed to return to Life. He escaped me."

"Who?" demanded Javen. He wanted to know who was responsible for this massacre.

The Abhorsen gulped. "Raum."

"Raum?" Farelle repeated. From the expression on her face, Javen knew that she was remembering the battle between the Charter bloodlines and the Freemen, which had culminated in an attack on the Palace itself. That had been before he came to Belisaere. "Surely you can't mean the necromancer Raum? Gamori's second-in-command?"

"The very same." The Abhorsen gazed sadly at the spot on the tree where the Charter marks had faded. "His spirit is now loose in the Kingdom. But more than this, he can still perform advanced Free Magic. He calls himself a Greater Dead."

Javen's mind was spinning. It was too much to take in at once. He looked at Farelle, and the same fear he felt was reflected in her eyes.

"What is he going to do?" asked Prince Andromis.

The dark-haired man considered for a moment. "I think he will go into hiding until he regains his strength," he said finally. "He was weakened after our fight, and I believe I could have defeated him had I been completely hale."

Javen glanced at his wife and saw that familiar light of determination creep back into her face. "Very well," she said firmly. "We shall notify the King. But before we leave, we close the gate. The Wall is nearly complete, Charter be thanked. We are finished with Ancelstierre."

The Royal Guards watched silently as Farelle, Andromis, and the Abhorsen pushed the gate back into its proper position. They cast a series of Charter spells, and the metal twisted together. Marks of closure and protection shimmered over the iron and flowed into the stones. The gate was shut and sealed, and the company rode north without a backwards glance.

_A/N: I'm about to pull another time-jump on you. This is the last one, I promise. The next chapter will take place after two years. We only have three more chapters to go! I'm starting to get excited… and sad, too. __And bewildered –__ how in the world did this story pass 125,000 words?_

_Reviews, as always, are greatly welcomed._


	48. Guest of Honour

_A/N: A couple of years have passed since the last chapter. In the story's timeline, I mean, not since I _posted_ the last chapter – although this update has taken quite a while too. This chapter is the longest yet, which is my somewhat pathetic attempt to make up for the long wait. It is not particularly action-packed, but we do witness a first meeting between some of the characters._

**Guest of Honour**

Farelle drummed her fingers distractedly on the arms of her throne, but stopped when her father sent her an admonishing glance. "What?" she whispered in self-defence. "He is taking a rather long time, don't you think?"

Seated on the other side of the King, Farelle's mother remarked, "Perhaps he is hoping to make a more dramatic entrance this way." She paused. "Though Andy was never one for theatrics, come to think of it."

"Maybe he ran into some problems," muttered Farelle, clasping her hands in her lap to keep from fidgeting. "Maybe we should send out some guards to find him. Maybe he has been away for so long that he cannot remember the way to the throne room and –"

"Will you be quiet?" King Dantalion hissed. He swept his gaze across the room to make sure that nobody had noticed their minor argument. The various lords and ladies of the court chattered on as usual, quite oblivious to the quiet conversation taking place on the dais. "Farelle," he said in a tight voice that showed he was reining in his temper, "I am absolutely certain that your brother remembers the way to the throne room. It has hardly been two years since he was last here."

"Yes, and isn't that interesting?" the Queen murmured, looking sideways at Farelle and giving a small smile. "He used to visit us every time he went on leave. I am quite keen to meet this mysterious woman who has so captured his heart."

"You and the rest of the court," observed Farelle.

Javen had finished speaking with the guards at the door and was mounting the steps of the dais, moving to take up his post beside Farelle's throne. "They are on their way," he reported, and even the King straightened up a bit at this pronouncement.

"We are finally going to meet her," Farelle said, hardly able to contain her excitement. She looked up at her husband. "Javen, has Andy ever told you anything about his lady love?"

The Captain of the Guard shifted uneasily. "Nothing worth mentioning," he said, but Farelle knew straightaway that he was hiding something. She gave him one of her sterner looks, and he sighed in defeat. "Well, he and I had a talk about it when we liberated the Abhorsen from jail. All I can say is that their relationship is somewhat… complicated."

Farelle exchanged a glance with her mother, wondering what that was all about. But she did not wonder for long, as at that moment the enormous double doors were thrown open and Bieryn, Master of the Household, announced: "May I present Prince Andromis, First Lieutenant of the Scarlet Company, and Lady Zavebe, Mistress of Ornell."

The courtiers murmured with excitement and even some of the Royal Guards craned their heads to get a look. The crowd parted and Farelle could see Andromis striding towards them with a wide smile. He looked much as she remembered him, though a bit more tanned due to riding about the countryside with his soldiers. And beside him was a woman with a mane of curly red hair and a bold nose. She was very tall, and was wearing a rather low-cut dress of vibrant blue. Farelle knew at once that she felt very strongly about her, although she could not say if she liked the woman or hated her.

The King, the Queen, and Farelle descended the steps of the dais, and Andromis and Lady Zavebe stopped a short distance away on the marble floor. "Mother, father," greeted Andromis after executing a bow. He took the red-haired woman's hand as she rose from her curtsey. "This is Zavebe."

Farelle's mother smiled and kissed the young woman's cheek. "Welcome to Belisaere. I am so glad to meet you at last." The King's salutation was limited to a nod and a neutral sort of grunt, but Farelle knew that he behaved like that with everyone.

"This is my sister Farelle," said Andromis, continuing the introductions, "and her husband, Captain Javen."

Zavebe extended her hand. "A pleasure to meet you."

Farelle was surprised by the other woman's strong grip. Her eyes met Lady Zavebe's, and there was something like a challenge flashing in them. Farelle held the gaze longer than was customary, letting Zavebe know that she was someone to be reckoned with as well, Princess or not. When they released hands there was a feeling of wariness between them, and a touch of mutual respect. Farelle still did not know what she thought of the other woman, but recognized that she would have to watch herself around her.

Zavebe offered her hand to Javen next, and her eyes widened when she noticed his right arm. It had taken Farelle a few weeks to get used to herself. Felio and Nehima had crafted it well, and it was an odd but strangely beautiful thing, an elegant puzzle of wires, metal plates, and Charter marks. If she squinted her eyes, Farelle could almost believe that her husband was wearing a mailed glove.

"This is remarkable," breathed Zavebe, examining the back of Javen's hand with interest and quite forgetting decorum. The only person who seemed to mind was the King.

Farelle's husband waggled his silver fingers demonstratively. "The Wallmakers fashioned it for me. Nearly as good as the real thing too. I can even cast Charter magic with it."

"You see?" said Zavebe, dropping Javen's hand and turning to Andromis. "This is why the Wallmakers shouldn't be forced to leave. You cannot make them abandon such valuable work." Andromis sighed, and Farelle got the impression that they were continuing an old argument.

The King cleared his throat and stepped forward. "The Wallmakers are not being forced to do anything, Lady Zavebe," he said with what for him passed as politeness. "They are deciding their own fate. It is not up to me to determine, and certainly not up to Andromis."

Farelle glanced quickly at Zavebe, who had flushed but remained defiant. She had to admire the other woman's pluck. Perhaps it would do her brother some good to court a woman with a spine.

"Sitri and my aunts and cousins say hello," said Andromis, breaking the awkward silence. "We visited the Glacier before coming here, and I made them all swear not to tell you anything. Oh, and Gressa is a grandmother now. Isodell just had a baby."

Farelle frowned as she tried to remember the cousin in question. "But she can't be more than –"

"Eighteen," the Queen confirmed. "But remember, your grandmother was twenty when she had your aunt Neryl."

"Speaking of babies, how are the children?" asked Andromis with interest. He had yet to see his nephew and niece.

Farelle exchanged a knowing glance with Javen. "Sleeping, thank the Charter. The nanny is with them."

"Perhaps you would like to see them later," Javen offered courteously, and Zavebe beamed and gave an eager nod. Farelle decided that she could be rather pretty, despite her bold features.

Andromis' sharp grey eyes were darting around the room, taking in the courtiers whose eyes were fixed upon the Royal Family's guest of honour. "It is a larger reception than what I was expecting," he admitted, sounding anxious. "I did request a private party, you know, father."

"We have not seen you for years, Andromis," said the King with a rare smile. "Your arrival alone merits a celebration, and we wished to provide a suitable welcome for our guest." He lifted his arm, and the musicians seated in the corner began to play a lilting melody. As if released from a spell the courtiers started moving and chatting again, although more than a few were still staring at Lady Zavebe. "But other guests demand our attention at present. If you would excuse us."

As the King and Queen went arm-in-arm to circulate among the lords and ladies of the court, Andromis grimaced. "Is this our cue to mingle?" he asked with a mock groan.

"If you remember how," Farelle teased.

Zavebe crossed her arms. "I wouldn't be so sure of that," she said, smirking. "What with roaming around in the woods for months on end and acting like a savage, it's a miracle that Andy can still string two words together."

Farelle glanced at Javen and mouthed, "Andy?" with raised eyebrows. Her brother usually only put up with the nickname from his family. Not even his best friend Marrick called him that.

A servant glided over with a tray of drinks. "His Majesty the King asks that I remind you all to see to your duties," he said blandly. The four of them exchanged wry looks. Farelle rolled her eyes, took a glass of pink wine, and moved into the crowd.

As the Crown Princess it was Farelle's responsibility to circulate and make cordial and amusing comments to the palace guests, but she did not feel like mingling tonight. She exchanged a few smiles and pleasantries with the lords and ladies who addressed her before moving on, and in this way was able to avoid dreary conversations about nothing, that seemed to be all the rage in court. As the minutes passed in this fashion, Farelle knew that it was only a matter of time before she was approached by somebody who would not allow himself or herself to be brushed off so easily. She sighed and tapped her fingers on the stem of her glass, trying to decide which conversation she should join in earnest before somebody truly odious demanded her attention.

Something she saw made her freeze in her tracks. Sir Falgon was making a beeline for her, having seen that she was unengaged. Wanting to do anything rather than speak with that pretentious one-eyed Council member, Farelle took a deep breath and struck out into the crowd. She slipped between two quarrelling noblewomen before finally making it to the clear space at the end of the room, knowing that she did not have much time. Two Royal Guards nodded at her respectfully, but she was preoccupied with trying to locate her husband.

"Javen!"

He turned immediately at her voice, and she seized his left arm – the real one. "Quick, protect me," she hissed, dragging him back into the crowd.

"From what?" The Captain of the Guard looked bewildered, his head swivelling to and fro as he sought for a source of danger among the mingling courtiers.

"From Sir Falgon," she explained, and his expression cleared. "Pretend that we are having a conversation."

"We _are_ having a conversation," her husband pointed out in his usual straightforward manner as they moved further into the crowd and away from the approaching knight.

Farelle gave his arm an impatient little shake. "Yes," she said through her teeth, "but pretend that we are discussing something exceedingly important. Something that absolutely cannot be interrupted for any reason in the world." She nodded and smiled at Palace Mage Girvase, who gave her a curious look as they bustled past.

The Captain was clearly at a loss. "And how am I supposed to do that?"

"I do not know. Just pick a topic," she said, starting to get a little irritated. She could see Falgon coming closer by the minute, and manoeuvred so that the refreshment table stood between them.

Javen must have sensed her mounting displeasure because he bit his lip and looked around the room for inspiration. "Er – it is unusually crowded in here today."

"Is that really the best you can do?" Farelle groaned. She turned right around to look at him, shaking her head and smiling at his idiocy and utter lack of imagination. She felt a warm wave of tenderness for her husband, thick as he could be. "How is your arm?" she asked softly.

"It's all right," said Javen, turning his arm so that the candlelight flickered off the silver surface. "It still burns sometimes. And where the metal meets the flesh the pain is incessant, but Nehima told me that I would just have to live with it."

Farelle shook her head. "My poor darling," she whispered, catching his hands in hers.

It took the sound of somebody clearing his throat for Farelle to realize that she had been staring lovingly into her husband's eyes. She turned to see her parents, but looking past her father's admonishing gaze, she realized with satisfaction that her intimate moment with Javen had discouraged Sir Falgon.

"Yes, father?" she asked with a brilliant smile.

The King tilted his head to the side in a way that bizarrely reminded Farelle of her sister Sitri. "Shouldn't you be mingling, Farelle?"

"Ignore him," said her mother with a smile. "He is just jealous that he could not escape from Sir Falgon as well as you could."

Farelle grinned. "You saw that?"

Her father gave her a stern look. "Try not to be too proud of yourself."

Andromis and Zavebe emerged from the crowd to join them. Zavebe was looking belligerent, and Farelle's brother seemed rather hassled. Farelle guessed that the other woman's tendency to speak her mind had forced her brother to negotiate his way out of a few political situations. "Excellent, have we finished with mingling?" asked the Prince with obvious relief.

The King gazed back and forth between his son and daughter. "You two are impossible."

"An unjust accusation," Farelle declared. "You detest mingling at least as much as we do, father. Why not do away with it altogether?" The King treated her to one of his most forbidding looks, but the Princess was in such high spirits at her brother's return that she paid it no heed. Or perhaps it was the wine.

"That sounds like a splendid idea," said Andromis, only half-joking. "And as this is a party in my honour, after all –" Zavebe elbowed him sharply. "I mean in _our_ honour, deciding when the mingling is to end and the dancing is to begin should be decided by me – er, _us_," he added hastily at Zavebe's glare.

Penemue was shaking her head. "Andromis, usually you and your sister are such mature, responsible individuals…" She turned and raised her arm, and the musicians immediately began to play an elegant dancing tune. The lords and ladies moved to the sides of the room, clearing the middle of the floor for the next stage of the evening.

The King was staring at his wife, astonished by her betrayal, and she smiled back serenely. "It is their night, darling," she pointed out, and Farelle's father could say nothing to that. Andromis bowed and offered his hand to Lady Zavebe, who took it, and they practically ran onto the dance floor before the King could change his mind and order everyone to resume mingling. Soon other couples had joined them, including Farelle and Javen.

"Well?" asked the Captain of the Guard as they whirled across the room. "What do you think of her?"

Farelle glanced over at Lady Zavebe, easily locating her vibrant hair amongst the other dancers. "I am not sure," she admitted. "Frankly, I am surprised by my brother's choice. Charsia was a lot more… tame."

"She does tend to say whatever she thinks," said Javen wryly. "Your brother is going to have his hands full." He glanced at the Prince before looking back at Farelle. "Would you like to speak to him?" What with the music and the constant movement, a truly private conversation during one of these events could only take place during a dance. Farelle nodded, and they drew nearer to the other couple.

"Mind if I cut in?" asked Javen gallantly, and Andromis stepped back from his partner. He watched Zavebe as she was whisked off into the crowd.

"I need to ask you something, Andy," said Farelle as they started to dance.

"Mmm?" Her brother was looking over the heads of their neighbours at Zavebe, his eyes never leaving her.

Farelle squeezed his shoulder to command his full attention. "Listen, Andy. I have to ask you – do you know what you are doing?"

Andromis blinked and looked down at her. "What are you talking about?"

"You. Zavebe. Together," she said pointedly. "I cannot figure it out. Are you only with her because of that vision you mentioned in your letter?"

"You think I would do that?" asked the Prince, starting to get angry.

"I do not know! Charsia I understood, because she seemed to fit your ideal and was also first-rate princess material. But Zavebe I do not understand at all. The only explanation is the vision, and it is such a trivial thing to direct your actions."

Andromis was shaking his head. "You did not have my vision. You have no idea what I Saw in Ornell."

"The Sight only shows possible futures," Farelle pointed out. "Your Sight is very weak, Andy. How do you know if what you Saw was true?"

"People with the Sight usually See their deaths, correct? And they never question the significance of _those _visions, no matter how strong they are."

"Are you likening your relationship with this woman to _dying_?" asked Farelle sardonically.

The Prince looked up at the ceiling as if asking for patience. "What is going on?" he asked with forced calm. "What is wrong with Zavebe? Do you have something against her?"

Farelle looked over at the other woman, who was talking spiritedly with Javen as they danced. "I'm not sure," she admitted in a low voice. "It just seems so… unusual for you. And her nose, Andy!"

"What's wrong with her nose?" Andromis hissed, and a couple dancing nearby looked over at him curiously. "Listen Farelle," her brother said in an undertone, "I do not care what you think of her, or whether you understand my actions. And you should get used to the idea, because I am going to marry her."

Farelle gaped at him and stumbled as she took a wrong step. "You – really?" she said, peering over at the young woman again. After a pause, she asked, "Are you going to tell father?"

Her brother looked strained. "I do not think so. Not yet, anyway. That was why I wanted tonight's gathering to be only the family."

When the song came to a close Farelle drew back and curtseyed, allowing her brother to lead her from the dance floor. Servants were making rounds with platters of food and trays of drinks, and the siblings seized large glasses of wine as the second dance began. Andromis drained half of his in one gulp. They were soon joined by Javen and Zavebe, who was staring over her shoulder at Sir Falgon. The one-eyed knight was discoursing loudly on the protesters who had gathered outside the palace gates:

"A rag-tag mob just sitting there on the street, holding candles," he was saying. "It seems they have set up a constant vigil to protest the Wall, can you imagine that?" His listeners laughed obligingly, but Farelle noticed that Zavebe was looking furious. "I do not know why they bother anymore," the knight chortled. "From what I hear, the Wall is near completion."

Before Farelle knew it, Zavebe had balled her hands up into fists and stalked over to the group. For a wild moment Farelle thought that Zavebe was actually going to strike Sir Falgon, but instead she planted herself directly in front of him, hands on her hips and eyes blazing with fury. "They do have the right to protest," she burst out, and the nobleman and his audience turned to her in surprise. Farelle exchanged a look with Javen, and Andromis beckoned for a servant to refill his glass.

The knight was quick to recover his composure. "Lady Zavebe," he acknowledged with a graceful bow. "I am Sir Falgon, and it is an honour to make your acquaintance at last. Long has the court desired to meet the woman who has captured our Prince's heart."

Zavebe waved aside the salutation and stood her ground. "I could not help but overhear your comments on the protesters, Sir Falgon," she said through gritted teeth. "You wonder why they bother? Surely you do not expect people to give up their beliefs merely because it seems that the end is near?"

Queen Penemue had strolled over and was watching the confrontation with interest. Indeed, many people were gathering around, and Farelle felt a twinge of sympathy for her brother, who looked as though he wished that the ground could swallow him up.

"I for one admire their dedication," Zavebe was saying heatedly, "that they continue to fight this venture even now."

"It is good of you to admire them," replied Sir Falgon, colour rising in his cheeks, "but right now their actions tiresome and inconvenient. Some people simply do not know when they are bested."

"And you see that as a shortcoming?" Zavebe countered with a ferocity that surprised Farelle.

Andromis let out a quiet groan and put a hand over his eyes as the argument escalated. The Queen, however, was looking thoughtful. "I do hope that the protesters are all right, sitting out there," she murmured to Farelle as they watched the squabble. "Some of them have remained outside the palace gates for days. Do you think they would like some warm soup and bread?"

"Good idea, mother," said Farelle dryly. "Let's feed the dog that bites us."

"You are being most unjust!" declared Zavebe to the knight, gesticulating violently with her hands. "You cannot condemn people for their beliefs!"

"Even if they are the wrong ones?" Sir Falgon retorted, his voice rising in turn.

"Who are _you_ to say that they are the wrong ones?" Zavebe nearly shrieked. What happened next should have been foreseen, but one of Zavebe's flailing arms knocked a tray right out of a passing servant's hands. There were cries of alarm as lords and ladies found themselves showered with wine. Glasses shattered on the marble floor, burgundy liquid splashed onto cloaks and gowns, and the silver tray landed with a deafening clatter.

Farelle's mouth was hanging open in complete shock. The musicians had stopped playing and the dancers were frozen in the middle of the room. Quick footsteps broke the horrible silence, and the crowd parted hastily to let the King through. His grey eyes darted over the broken glass and spilled drinks, over the courtiers and their stained finery, over Sir Falgon who had received a faceful of wine, and over Zavebe who was blushing to the roots of her red hair. "Prince Andromis," the King said quietly, using his son's formal title. "Would you please come with me? And bring Lady Zavebe as well."

Farelle watched her father sweep away, the courtiers pushing against each other to give him a wide berth. Andromis took Zavebe by the hand and followed quickly and silently. "Mother," whispered the Princess. "You can handle this, can't you?" At the Queen's nod, Farelle hurried after them. She was joined by Javen at the edge of the room, and as they followed the others into the hall Farelle gave him a quick smile. "Couldn't miss this, could you?"

Her husband gave a small grin. "Not for the world."

The small group proceeded through the hallways encircled by the King's personal guards, who even Javen admitted were a rather paranoid bunch. They were well-trained, keeping their eyes moving for any hint of a possible attack, and their hands glued to the hilts of their swords. They paid surprisingly little attention to the chaos occurring within their protective ring.

Andromis and Zavebe were simultaneously apologizing to the King's back, but the older man beckoned for Farelle to walk beside him, and she hastened to comply. "You were there," he said quietly, keeping his gaze forward. "How will this effect our relations with the people present?"

Farelle glanced over her shoulder at Andromis who was pleading with their father for forgiveness, but his pleas were falling on deaf ears. "Sir Falgon got the worst of it," she said quietly, "but I would not worry about him. With any luck he will resign from the King's Council and we will be rid of his presence. The Lord of Callibe and his wife were also spilt on, but they are a rather light-hearted couple and a written apology should suffice. Master Bieryn is hardly a guest and puts up with this sort of thing all the time, but an apology would be courteous. And Lady Sophalia drinks so much wine anyway that she may have actually enjoyed the experience."

Behind them Zavebe was now telling Andromis that her behaviour had been justified and there was nothing for her to apologise about, and went on to state how utterly narrow-minded Sir Falgon was, throwing in some well-chosen insults in the process. Andromis was attempting to ignore her, and asking Javen for help in appealing to his father.

"So the situation is salvageable?" asked the King, ignoring his son.

Farelle nodded. "I believe so."

"Very well. See to it." He looked about the hallway. "Now I must address the matter of the Prince and our guest. We need somewhere to talk where we cannot be overheard."

"My rooms are closest," offered Farelle. "We can take a shortcut." She led the way through a small wooden door, and they were immediately assailed by the noises and smells of the kitchens.

"Father!" Apparently having had enough, Andromis was squeezing past two startled cooks and hurried to the King's side. "Father, please stop and listen to me." The King did not even look at him. Andromis set his jaw and moved to plant himself directly in front of the man, placing an impeding hand on his father's chest so that he could not be ignored any longer. The group stopped short. It was a ridiculous setting for such a confrontation: Farelle, Javen, and Zavebe were looking on in surprise and apprehension; the entire group was surrounded by guards who remained alert for assassination attempts; and the cooks pretended to work as they watched their King and Prince, not noticing that the food was burning.

"Father, I apologise," said Andromis seriously, "but I think you are putting far too much importance on this. It was an accident, for Charter's sake!" He took a deep breath, and his next words were utterly composed: "For you, everything is politics, and nobody can act without you worrying over the repercussions. It was politics that made you order the execution of the Freemen and all of their accomplices, and it was politics that forced you to send Javen into battle and caused him to lose his arm." Farelle glanced at her husband, who shifted uncomfortably, but the King's gaze remained fixed on Andromis. Farelle could not remember when she had last seen her father so angry.

"I have been more than generous with you," the King said finally, and his voice was dangerously quiet. "I do not dictate who you may keep company with, Prince Andromis, although I am starting to wonder whether that was a wise decision on my part."

Zavebe looked angry at that and took a half-step forward, but Andromis spoke before she could: "I am going to marry her."

At his words all activity in the kitchens came to a halt, and everyone held their breath and waited for the King's response. Farelle had to admire her brother, who resolutely stood his ground. As for their father, he had been struck speechless by the news. After a very long moment he jerked his head and brushed past the Prince, walking out of the kitchens.

The rest of the group followed, and as the door closed behind them Farelle heard a sharp babble break out among the kitchen staff. The news was going to be all over the palace in a few hours' time. She could only imagine what people would say.

The King stormed over to Farelle and Javen's quarters, and the guards posted there had barely enough time to bow before he threw open the double doors. The King's guards moved to stand on either side of the entrance, and Farelle went in to see the startled nanny leap up from her chair. "It's all right," Farelle assured her. "We just want to have a private discussion." The nanny took one look at the King's hard expression, bobbed a curtsey, and scurried out of the room.

"Listen, Andy," Zavebe was saying to the Prince as he closed the doors behind them. "If I have to watch every word I say, I'm not so sure I want to live in this palace."

"You're the one who once accused me of forgetting courtly manners," snapped Andromis, his temper flaring up.

Watching the two of them bicker, Farelle began to understand the dynamic that existed between her brother and his intended. As for the King, he was pacing back and forth as if determined to wear a hole in the carpet. The disturbance seemed to have woken up the baby, as a faint wailing cry was heard. Javen ducked through a door and soon emerged cradling a little pink bundle in his arms. "Allaric is asleep," he whispered to Farelle, who breathed a sign of relief. Only one awake, then. At least something was going right.

"So Sir Falgon is allowed to belittle the protesters, but I am not allowed to say what I wish?"

Andromis threw up his hands in clear frustration. He glanced over at Javen, and hastily said, "Look, a baby!"

Zavebe stopped in mid-argument. She turned, and her expression unexpectedly softened. Farelle was astonished by the change this made to the other woman's appearance. Her nose did not seem quite so beaky, and now that she wasn't glaring, the lovely shape of her eyes could be appreciated. Farelle watched as she moved to stand by Javen's shoulder, practically cooing over the infant, who reached out with a tiny hand and grabbed a curl of her red hair. "What's her name?" Zavebe whispered, enraptured, and her voice was gentler than Farelle had ever heard it.

"Eligora," said Javen. "She is five months old."

Farelle took advantage of the sudden quiet to approach the King, who had stopped pacing. "Father?" she said hesitantly. "The situation really isn't that serious."

The King glanced at her, then turned to Andromis and inclined his head. "I apologise for my behaviour," he said stiffly, and Farelle suppressed a smile; she knew how difficult it was for her father to say that. "You were right, of course. About everything. Lady Zavebe?" The woman looked up from little Eligora, and the King cleared his throat gruffly. "I welcome you to our family."

Zavebe grinned self-consciously and spread her arms. "I probably wasn't what you were expecting."

The King raised his eyebrows. "Frankly, I like you better than Charsia. At least you will keep my son on his toes."

Nearly everyone laughed at that. "I'm afraid I am not cut out for life at court," Zavebe admitted, "but I have a fine manor house in Ornell, and you are all welcome to visit."

Their conversation was cut short by a sharp knock on the door. A breathless messenger entered, sweeping the plumed hat from her head. "Your Majesties," she panted, bowing. "I bring news from the border. Master Felio of the Wallmakers sends word that the construction of the Wall is complete."

Farelle glanced at her father who looked as stunned as she felt. After all these years, after so much conflict, it was over at last. The King recovered his composure quickly. "Go on."

"The Wallmakers request the presence of the Royal Family to witness the final spells," said the messenger. "You are expected at the Eastern end of the Wall, at dawn on the longest day of summer."

"Only a week from today," Javen muttered as Farelle moved to stand beside him. She fussed with the blankets around Eligora's face.

The King was frowning. "Have the other Bloodlines been notified?"

"Messengers have been sent to the Clayr, the Abhorsen, and the Moot in Ancelstierre."

Farelle barely noticed her father dismissing the messenger, as she was immersed in old memories of her grandmother Tirelle describing the making of the Great Stones. The part of the story where the Wallmakers disappeared had always given Farelle the chills. Would it happen again? Would Felio, and Nehima, and old Ghidreth, and all the rest of them vanish? Without even leaving a body behind for the final rites? She shivered involuntarily.

Her father noticed her unease. "We are going to witness this," he said firmly. His gaze encompassed everyone in the room, and Zavebe nodded and took Andromis' hand. "The Wallmakers may very well make the ultimate sacrifice for their Kingdom, and we must acknowledge that."

Farelle bowed her head in assent. She was a Princess of the Kingdom, and the least she could do was pay homage to their most valiant and noble subjects and their greatest creation. She would honour the Wallmakers, whatever fate awaited them.

_A/N: My, I wonder what's going to happen next? Oh Zavebe, what is the Kingdom going to do with you? And I rather liked Andromis in this one. Kudos to him for standing up to the King! We have only two chapters left now; hard to believe, isn't it? As always, reviews are greatly appreciated. And I apologise again for leaving this update so long._


	49. The Wallmaker's Relict

_A/N: I am scum. I deserve to be publicly denounced, drawn and quartered, and put on bread and water rations for the rest of my natural life (not necessarily in that order). My lack of updates has been appalling. I actually had this chapter finished, then I looked at it and decided that it was crap and wanted to re-write the whole thing, so I erased it and started again from scratch._

_Also, in my own pitiable defence Real Life was interfering with my opportunities to write. A lot has happened since my last update, as you can well imagine. During that time I did a lot of Soul-Searching, had a Glorious Epiphany, and consequently have some Wonderful News to share with you all: I have abandoned my former plans to become a doctor, and will instead study literature! That's right, I decided to thumb my nose at everyone in my life who assumed that I would conform to their expectations, and will instead do what I really love. While this decision has made me deliriously happy, it has also caused many complications of a practical nature, and to cut a long story short I am now going to try to get an Honours English degree in two and a half years. I've been very busy, but now I'm back at school, studying the subject I love, and I wouldn't have it any other way. _

_So here, at long last, and with many humble apologies, and oceans of thanks for your encouraging reviews, is chapter forty-nine of Five Great Charters._

**The Wallmaker's Relict**

Cassiel did not mind the darkness. He had experienced enough of it in his lifetime, stumbling after Free Magic creatures in the dead of night. No, it was not the darkness that unsettled him, but rather the unusual quiet. Earlier, when he had arrived at the Wall under the blistering noonday sun, he had barely been able to hear himself think with all the screaming and chanting. Masses of protesters had camped as close to the Wall as the Royal Guards would let them.

It was a real shame that the protesters had fought to get so close, and not just because Cassiel resented their hostility. No, he was thinking about the other people sleeping in the woods tonight, people who had travelled from all over the Kingdom to watch the miracle of the Wall's completion, only to find that the sites with the best views had been occupied for the past few years by ragged protesters. Thousands had come, and hardly any would be witness to the Wallmakers' last work. Of course, years from now when they dandled their grandchildren on their knees, they would most likely tell thrilling stories about how they'd seen the building of the Wall with their own eyes.

As the Abhorsen, Cassiel and his eldest son had been given a tent near Ghidreth's forge by the eastern end of the Wall. Turiel was ill, and Lessandra had elected to stay at home. Secretly Cassiel was glad that his wife would not be here, because she herself had been an apprentice Wallmaker in her youth, and he did not know how she would handle it. Lessandra had been rearranging their bookshelves for days in advance because of her nervousness.

Cassiel approached the triplet tents and exchanged a polite word with Lieutenant Oscaer as the guards parted to let him through. Tiptoeing by the green tent, he smiled as he remembered his visit with the Clayr. The fair-haired Seers had been women of all ages, numbering around twenty, and he had soon lost track of the names and faces. One vivacious young Clayr, Lydael by name, had been most persistent in trying to engage Vichael in conversation, going so far as to force honey cakes on him. Cassiel had found this most amusing, and pretended not to understand the pleading looks his teenaged son had sent his way. Five of the original seven Daughters of the Clayr had been there. Queen Penemue was, of course, with the Royal Family. And Eligora was at the Glacier, still deep within her trance. According to Neryl the frequency of their visions had diminished, almost certainly because they no longer Saw artefacts that the Wallmakers were destined to make.

He approached the blue tent flying a silver key pennant, drew aside the flap, and ducked noiselessly inside. With a deep sigh he sank onto his bedroll, but did not remove his sword or boots. Cassiel knew that he would not be able to sleep. In any case, he was due to call upon the Wallmaker soon.

"I'm awake too, father." A wavering Charter light ignited, and Cassiel turned to see Vichael propping himself up on one elbow, tousle-haired but bright-eyed. "You were gone long."

"I went for a walk. The protesters are all slumbering peacefully beneath the stars, dreaming dreams of crumbling stones and mortar."

Vichael wrinkled his nose. "And how was the meeting with the Royal Family?"

"Interesting," said Cassiel, whispering despite the silencing spells placed around the tent. "I met Lady Zavebe."

"What did you think of her?"

The Abhorsen considered his answer carefully. "She is very… spirited," he said, not bothering to hide his grin in the muted light. "A bit of a rebel, I think. You should've seen her argue with Andromis. Your mother would like her very much, I imagine." He put his hands beneath his head, staring up at where the blue silk of the tent roof faded into black. "But I could not spend too long getting acquainted. Most of the time I was listening to Dantalion complain about Chief Minister Tralusan and the protesters. Our King was going on like a petulant child about how Tralusan still has the right to officially condone or condemn the building of the Wall."

"When will Tralusan make his decision?" asked Vichael with a frown.

"Tomorrow," Cassiel answered. "Or more accurately, later today. His original claim while he was running for office was that the Bright Shiners were being enslaved by the Bloodlines. He thought we were forcing them to put their powers into the Wall, for our own use. I know," he said at the expression on Vichael's face. "It is completely ridiculous. So he's here to see the Bright Shiners for himself. Tralusan cannot stop the construction of the Wall, thank the Charter. But he has the power to declare open war, which would be devastating for both the Kingdom and Ancelstierre."

The boy sighed. "Any more good news to brighten up my day?"

"It's night." Before his son could make a scathing reply, Cassiel continued. "But yes, there is a bit of news that doesn't concern the ruin of the Kingdom. Dantalion and Farelle are planning to build a large boom chain across the mouth of the bay to Belisaere to control trade. They've been having some problems with Ancelstierran smugglers. Of course, the construction could take decades because by then the Wallmakers will be gone…"

They did not speak for a moment.

"What do you think she wants with us?"

Cassiel did not need to ask who his son was talking about. "I honestly do not know," he admitted. "It's strange that Felio asked we bring Mogget along with us. I'm wondering what she wants with _him_."

"I've never seen the Wallmaker." Illuminated by his faint Charter light, the boy's face looked unusually solemn and thoughtful. "What is she like?"

The Abhorsen did not know quite what to say. "She is… difficult to describe," he finally murmured. "Ghidreth is friendly and has a good sense of humour, and it's always easy to talk to her. But when you see her, you feel like you are standing in the shadow of something… I do not know. She is like a person out of a myth. And in a way, I suppose she is." Cassiel sat up and turned to his son. "This is history in the making, Vichael, right here and now. I will tell you something that my father told me many times. He was a good storyteller, your grandfather, and I will try to relate it to you as well as he did."

Vichael sat up as well, and the Charter light hovered between them, casting its soft golden glow. Cassiel cleared his throat.

"It all began years ago at the palace in Belisaere, when a woman named Tirelle woke up in the middle of the night. She had dreamed that a magnificent sword was being passed from one hand to another." As he spoke, Cassiel remembered his father telling him the same story, usually as they lay by a campfire during their travels together. "Now for a normal person, this dream wouldn't have been of much consequence. But as King Berillan's personal Seer, Tirelle was far from normal and her dreams tended to be important. So she arose at once, marched directly to the King's personal chambers, and told him about her vision. They knew that the Wallmaker was meant to forge the weapon, and they also knew the identity of the man destined to wield the sword. He had once been a necromancer but had sworn loyalty to the King, and the power of a Bright Shiner had been put into his veins. This man was your grandfather, Vichael. He was sent for, and he journeyed with Lady Tirelle and King Berillan to the Wall – to this very spot. And it was here that the Wallmaker forged the sword. This sword." With great care the Abhorsen drew the weapon from its scabbard. The blade seemed to glow, and he offered it to his son who took it reverently. "A day and a night the Wallmaker worked away, and never had such craftsmanship been witnessed before, and probably never since. In the morning your grandfather accepted the sword from the Wallmaker's own hand. You see the inscription?"

Vichael tilted the weapon so that it caught the Charter light, and words suddenly etched themselves onto the shining blade. "The Clayr Saw me," he read slowly. "The Wallmaker made me. The King quenched me. Abhorsen wields me."

"It was prophesied by the Clayr that the sword would be used to slay those already dead." Cassiel smiled humourlessly. "Of the original four mentioned there, only Ghidreth is still alive."

Vichael ran his hand gently over the inscription. "How old is she?"

The Abhorsen frowned. "I am not sure. Old. About ninety, I should think."

"Is it too much to ask for a little peace and quiet in the middle of the night?"

Cassiel and Vichael turned to see a dishevelled white dwarf sitting up in the corner of their tent. His bright green eyes held a curious mixture of drowsiness and irritation.

"Sorry, Mogget," said Vichael automatically, then cocked his head to the side. "Wait a moment… You do not actually _need_ to sleep, do you?"

The diminutive albino gave an enigmatic smile. Cassiel half-heartedly threw an empty saddlebag at him, but missed. "Mogget, go drown yourself in a puddle, will you?" The dwarf was now used to being ordered to bring about his own death, and did not even reply.

Vichael handed the sword back to his father, then lay back down on his bedroll. "Is it time yet?"

"I do not know. Soon, anyway." Cassiel carefully sheathed the weapon, touching the emerald pommel stone briefly.

"When will we know when it's time?"

"Maybe they will send someone to fetch you." Mogget crossed his arms. "Speaking of which, milord, somebody is approaching."

"Don't call me that," Cassiel answered automatically, before realizing what his servant had said. "Wait – what? Who is approaching?"

"Patience, Abhorsen. Soon all will be revealed to you."

Cassiel frowned, but before he could say what was on his mind, a voice was heard outside: "Abhorsen? Master Vichael?"

Drawing aside the tent-flap, Cassiel came face-to-face with Felio, whose had acquired more grey in his hair since their last meeting. The Master Wallmaker's thin face broke into a rare smile. "Nice to see you again, Abhorsen. Are you ready? Is the Shining One with you?"

"The Shining One is right here," a voice grumbled from behind Cassiel's legs.

They made their way out of the ring of Royal Guards in silence. They walked down the Wall to where the Wallmaker's hut stood. The other huts and forges had long since been torn down, materials reused, and the building looked strangely alone and forlorn. Cassiel tried not to dwell on the fact that the Wallmakers would not be needing their homes anymore.

The brightness inside momentarily dazzled Cassiel's sight, and he squinted up at the light-casting Charter marks that crowded the ceiling. He remembered his father's description of the Wallmaker's home as being full of fascinating objects, and although the walls were crammed with shelves and hooks and cubby-holes, they were empty and bare. Armour stands and weapon racks stood empty. In the corner was the forge, unlit and cold. A large wooden chest stood open and half-filled with stacks and rolls of parchment, and more were piled in the corners of the room. Cassiel supposed that Felio was packing it all up to be taken to the Great Library at the Glacier.

"This way," said Felio, motioning towards one of the two doors leading out of the main room. He knocked, and opened it with a low creak.

Nehima stood from her chair beside the Wallmaker's bed. Her face was worn and there were crows-feet at the corners of her forget-me-not blue eyes, but she was smiling. "Welcome, Cassiel. Vichael," she said, ignoring Mogget completely. "Felio, I'll help you finish up out there." The two Master Wallmakers left the room, shutting the door gently behind them.

Cassiel took a deep breath and approached the Wallmaker's bedside. Ghidreth's long wavy locks had gone completely white, and her brown scalp could be seen through the thinning hairs. There were spots on the loose skin of her neck, and her eyes were rheumy and bloodshot. But her hands – her hands, once so large and capable, looked bent and broken. Decades of toiling at the forge had taken their toll on the woman.

She smiled, showing yellow teeth. "Welcome, Abhorsen." He was surprised by the strength in her voice. Not everything had changed, it seemed. "Have a seat. Both of you." She clapped her hands together weakly, and a twisted piece of metal unfolded into a second chair at her bedside. "It has been a long time, Mogget," she said, eyes twinkling, before turning her head to Vichael. "And I do not believe I have yet had the pleasure."

"This is my son Vichael. Vichael, Ghidreth the Wallmaker." Cassiel was amused to see that his normally self-assured son was having trouble finding something to say to the aged woman.

Ghidreth nodded her head kindly at the boy. "A worthy inheritor of the blade I forged. If it is not too much to ask, may I…?"

Cassiel instantly stood and drew the weapon, laying it on the Wallmaker's lap. She withdrew her arms from under the blankets and sighed, running her hand over the blade. Under her gnarled fingers the metal seemed to hum with energy, and Charter marks burst into life until the weapon seemed to be made of hundreds of brilliant golden flames. She withdrew her hand, and the marks faded. "This was some of my best work," she said quietly, sounding far-off and lost in memory.

Vichael was staring down at the woman's arm, which Cassiel saw was horribly scarred. Ghidreth noticed the boy's gaze. "Do not think that your father is the only one who battles evil creatures. I bound that one with Kibeth, but not before he gave me something to remember him by." She grinned, and Vichael smiled back, finally relaxing.

The Wallmaker turned her eyes to Cassiel. "I thought you had two sons, Abhorsen. Where is the other?"

"Turiel is ill," Cassiel said, carefully sheathing the sword. "Lessandra is with him."

"Ah." The old woman's gaze seemed to turn inward. "It is just as well," she murmured. "Lessandra need not witness this particular chapter in history." Her mouth quirked into a sudden smile. "You stole away one of our more promising apprentices, Abhorsen."

Cassiel's own smile faded. "Does she regret it?" he asked, voicing one of the fears that had haunted him for many years.

But the Wallmaker chuckled. "Charter, no! Put that idea out of your head. Now," she too grew serious, "I called you all here on a matter of extreme importance. It concerns our little friend here."

"I assume you mean me," Mogget spoke up gloomily. He stood across the bed from Cassiel and Vichael, and had spent the entire conversation glowering at the floor.

"Of course." She started to sit up, and Cassiel moved to help her. When she was finally upright, leaning against the cushions, she continued. "I have one spell yet to finish before the dawn." She looked earnestly into Cassiel's eyes. "I must make the bond between the bloodline and the servant permanent."

Cassiel glanced over at Mogget, who was scowling. "I'd hoped you'd forgotten about that," the little albino grumbled.

"I will also give you some of my memories," said the Wallmaker, addressing the dwarf gently. "Hopefully that, coupled with your own knowledge of this world, will be of some value to the generations to come. I do this so that the Abhorsen line will always have a guide."

"Who Saw this?" asked Cassiel, secretly wondering whether it was a good idea to entrust Mogget with all of this knowledge and responsibility.

The old woman smiled, aware of his reservations. "It was Tirelle. Years and years from now, when the world has changed more than any of us can imagine, this one will be my relict."

The dwarf rolled his eyes, obviously not thrilled with being a relict.

"I have one more thing, Mogget."

"Just the one?"

Ghidreth ignored the sarcasm. "Your last duty to me will be the completion of the Wall. You will do your part."

The dwarf sighed, but finally nodded, looking glum.

"All right." The old woman sat back, relieved. "Are you both ready?"

Cassiel glanced at his son, who set his jaw and nodded. "We are."

"Very well. Cassiel, give me your ring. Draw Saraneth and give the sword to Vichael. Both of you, shed blood on the ring stone."

They obeyed her instructions unquestioningly. Cassiel held the silver ring between his thumb and forefinger before handing it over. He and Vichael took turns pricking their fingers on the tip of the sword, and allowed a drop each to drip onto the ruby. It seemed to shine with a dull inner fire.

"Reach into the Charter."

Cassiel did so, easily drawing his mind away from the distractions within the little bedroom. Soon he was floating in a sea of shining marks, allowing the power of the Charter to fill him to the limit, until it was almost painful. He reached out with his free hand and put it on Ghidreth's shoulder. Beneath the woman's frail outer appearance was a raging flood of power, and Cassiel nearly staggered with the feeling of being connected to something vast, enormous. Then he felt Vichael's grasp on his arm. The boy was using the sword to help him focus, and the Abhorsen allowed himself a certain pride that his son, though still young, was powerful.

The Wallmaker reached forward with a shaking hand and loosed the belt around the dwarf's waist. Instantly Mogget seemed to dissolve, and he swirled into his vaguely man-shaped Free Magic form. Cassiel could feel malevolence radiating off of the thing, and he nearly took a step back. Before it could attack, the Wallmaker unleashed a Charter spell in a golden torrent.

"Yrael," she said, her voice resonant. "I bind you to the blood of the Abhorsen, and you will serve him and his line. The spell can only be released by an Abhorsen's bell, or broken by an Abhorsen's blood." She slipped the ring over its head with surprising deftness, and Cassiel rang Saraneth. The low booming peal made his bones tremble, and the ring tightened around the creature's middle. It had time for one last shriek of rage and despair before it swirled into a blazing white column, growing more solid until it took the familiar shape of a small green-eyed man.

Cassiel broke his contact with the Wallmaker, feeling absolutely drained. Beside him, a weak-kneed Vichael sank into his metal chair. The Wallmaker lay back against her pillows, but showed no signs of fatigue other than a light sheen of sweat on her dark brow.

The tired silence was broken by a hacking cough, and Vichael stooped to pick up the ring that had been regurgitated by Mogget. _Mogget_, the Shining One. Permanently bound. Their servant, and the Wallmaker's relict. And all of this contained within the form of an albino dwarf-boy.

"It is done," said Ghidreth. She smiled up at them. A remarkable old woman. "You two had better get some sleep. You look exhausted, and you will need to rise before dawn if you do not want to miss the show."

As Felio showed them out of the room Cassiel glanced back, and saw Nehima at the Wallmaker's bedside, tucking the old woman in.

_A/N: I had a difficult time reconciling the idea of Mogget being "the Wallmaker's relict" as revealed in _Sabriel_, and his role as the Eighth Shiner as revealed in _Abhorsen_. I think that since the first book in the trilogy was written initially as a stand-alone work, Nix had to change a few of his ideas for the sequels. I hope this keeps everything true to the books._

_Only one more chapter to go now! Hopefully it won't take as long as this one, although it'll have to wait until I'm finished with exams. As usual, reviews are most welcome. If any of you are still reading, that is_…


	50. Midsummer Dawn

_A/N: Congratulations, you made it! You, reader, have my sincere admiration. When I first drafted an outline of this story it was supposed to be only five chapters about the making of Abhorsen's sword – so much for that! Then when I got around to typing up and posting it, I meant to limit myself to twenty-five chapters, maximum. Then thirty-seven. And now… well, let me just repeat that you have my deep admiration and gratitude for sticking with this all the way through. This chapter has been a long time coming, and I hope that it is worth the wait._

**Midsummer Dawn**

Neryl quietly emerged from her tent. She yawned, stretched her tired old limbs, and ignited a Charter mark that moved to hover lazily above her head. The sky was dark, and Neryl was stunned to see the entire Wall lit up by lanterns and torches, practically glowing in the deep grey before dawn. Few people were stirring at this hour, and Neryl took advantage of the unusual silence to drink in the sight of the Wall itself. Over the height of six men, it had been constructed of solid stone blocks and sculpted into crenulations along the top. At this end, a single low arched tunnel cut through to Ancelstierre, gated with oak and iron. Neryl's aging eyes could just pick out Charter marks floating lazily over the surface, flittering over stone and leaking out of the mortar. She turned to her right and let her gaze follow the lantern-lit Wall, stretching off into the distance and eventually disappearing in a tiny thread of gold over the distant wooded hills.

The Voice of the Clayr stood alone, savouring the cold and quiet. Although she had become accustomed to living with her large family over the years, she could still remember a time when she had wandered the Kingdom alone, reading signs in the stars for coins. It had been a hard living for a young woman travelling from village to village, and she had refused the help of her family. Now, older and somewhat wiser, Neryl reflected that she had chosen the life of a vagrant for the wrong reasons. She had not been doing something daring or adventurous; she had been running away from the pressures at home, the expectations that she would succeed her mother as Clayr. Perhaps more pertinently, she had been running away from the pain of her barrenness, her inability to keep a husband and thus maintain a home. It was ironic that now, well over fifty, she was the Voice of the Clayr and living in close quarters with fourteen nieces – one of whom had just had a baby.

She moved closer to the Wall and was surprised to see figures huddled in groups among the scaffolding, half-hidden in the shadows. There were not many Wallmakers, nowhere near the bustling populace she remembered from previous visits. In fact, in the dim light she could only count about twenty people until she lost sight of them.

Two figures broke away from the nearest group and approached her. As the figures came closer she recognized them as Master Wallmakers Felio and Nehima. In the pre-dawn gloom with torchlight at their back, Neryl thought that they looked something like legends, wearing their worn leather vests with an air of pride and bravado. Neryl knew that it must be a show to mask their fear for the unknown fate that awaited them at sunrise. Her sisters had assumed a similar manner before being given the power of Mosrael. _A blinding flash –_

"Good morning," said Nehima with a wide smile. Neryl blinked, the vision gone.

"It is not morning yet," the Clayr said, then inwardly winced. She knew as well as they what the dawn would bring. "Is anybody else awake?" she asked quickly.

Felio gave a brief smile, acknowledging her avoidance of the delicate subject. "The Wallmakers have all arisen," he answered, scanning the Wall. "At present the King has crossed over to Ancelstierre to have a few words with Chief Minister Tralusan." His voice was mild, but Neryl could only imagine what "a few words" between those two men could amount to. "He is accompanied by Captain Javen, but the rest of the Royal Family is still within, I believe."

Nehima was looking at something behind her. "And it would appear that Abhorsen senior and junior will be joining us, and their servant too."

Neryl turned to see Cassiel and Vichael standing outside of their blue tent, stifling yawns and stretching their arms above their sleep-tousled heads. That strange albino dwarf was poking his head around Cassiel's legs. Neryl's mother had told her that Gabriel Abhorsen had never been a morning person. It seemed his son and grandson shared this condition.

"Good morning," said Cassiel as he joined the group. His Charter marks floated up to hers and they drifted in a lazy circling dance. In the brighter light the shadows under his bloodshot eyes could be seen, and he hadn't shaved either. But he and his son were wearing clean blue surcoats that Neryl supposed had been brought for this very occasion. She herself was clad in spotless white.

Cassiel hooked his thumbs into his swordbelt, and looked up and down the Wall. "Not as many Wallmakers as I was expecting," he muttered, voicing Neryl's earlier observation. The dwarf, uninterested, wandered away in the direction of the Wallmaker's hut.

"We have spread out along the Wall," Felio explained, and Neryl shaded her eyes to look inland. "The houses and forges were dismantled, and we set up camps at regular intervals." Neryl knew about the recalling of the Kingdom's Wallmakers to the Wall over the past few years. Huts had once been widespread in the Kingdom, and there had been a great deal of protesting over their removal: people had become used to having a Wallmaker in their village. "We have a few Masters at each camp in charge of things, so it should all go smoothly." Felio was gazing pensively along the Wall, but from the look in his grey eyes he wasn't really seeing it.

"And are the Wallmakers all going to...?" Neryl looked at Vichael, whose voice trailed off uncertainly as the two Masters turned to him.

Nehima smiled. "We stopped recruiting several years ago," she explained. "There are no Apprentices now, only Masters and Craftsmen, and we have all spent some time working on the Wall. When you help to make something like this you put part of yourself into it, and once you do that you cannot leave your work unfinished. So yes, all of the Wallmakers are going to help complete the Wall. We have to."

Vichael still looked a bit upset, and Neryl sensed that the boy felt things more acutely than his father did. Felio spoke up. "What you have to understand, young Abhorsen, is that all of us want to do this." He made a sweeping gesture with his hand. "This – all of this – was the reason for being a Wallmaker. It is why we are here. We are honoured to be a part of it, and pity those of us who were not lucky enough to have lived this long." Cassiel's son was looking at the couple in slight awe, and Neryl exchanged a smile with the Abhorsen. _A blinding flash of light, painful –_

Rustling sounds and muffled voices brought Neryl back to the present; the rest of the Clayr and the Royal Family were starting to come out of their tents. And at her back, Neryl could sense a larger crowd beginning to stir. It began like the rumble of distant thunder, until eventually distinct voices and words could be made out. Gradually, they became conscious of an increasingly angry mob gathering behind the lines of the Royal Guards.

"Here we go," said Nehima, a look of intense dislike upon her face.

They watched as the more courageous protesters began to push against the guards, and within minutes they were hurling clods of earth and yelling abuse.

"Don't mind them," said Nehima to Vichael, who was looking apprehensive. "They've been here for days. You should have seen them yesterday. Tralusan was giving some sort of speech up on a platform, but we couldn't hear him for all their cheering. And there are even more of them on the other side."

"Eventually they will realize that nothing is happening, and will quiet down," said Felio. And true to his word, the protesters became gradually less enthusiastic. In the light of the torches and lanterns and Charter lights, it was obvious that the completion of the Wall would have to wait for some time more. The protesters sat down, grumbling and murmuring amongst themselves as they awaited the main event.

Neryl was pleased to see, beyond the protesters, some people watching curiously who had apparently travelled to witness history in the making. Many had come, from all over the Kingdom, and Neryl wondered if Tralusan stood with a similar assembly on the Ancelstierran side of the Wall. It was quite amusing, actually, the thought that all along this Wall there were two vast crowds of people facing each other without actually being able to see one another. The spectators talked amongst themselves quietly in the pre-dawn gloom, and some watched in silence, but beneath it all was an air of veiled excitement. A bard strummed a traditional children's song on his harp to pass the time. Sitting on a rock was his apprentice, a youngster of about eleven years old. _A ring of children dancing around a Charter Stone –_

The flash of vision ended in time for Neryl to see the door of the hut swing open. Ghidreth emerged, leaning on her stick. It was time.

Neryl's breath caught in her throat when she realized what was going to happen. She possessed the gift of Sight, but when things came to pass they still surprised her. She soundlessly embraced Felio, then Nehima, and Abhorsen and his son did the same. There were no words to say. There was no time to say what she wanted, to express what she felt, to these people. She felt tears stinging her eyes, and put a stop to it at once. She did not want the Wallmakers' last memory of the Voice of the Clayr to be of a blubbering idiot. Instead Neryl managed to smile, encouraging and sad.

She turned lastly to put her arms around frail Ghidreth, being careful of the aged body. "Thank you," she whispered in her ear. The Wallmaker nodded. _A blinding flash of light, painfully radiant, a dazzling glare –_

As Felio and Nehima helped Ghidreth to the Wall, Neryl walked with Cassiel and his son to stand with the Clayr and the Royal Family. A swift headcount assured her that all of the Clayr were present, and that she needn't check the tent for late risers. There were twenty of them including Sitri, and the baby made twenty-one. Twenty women and girls in white dresses and moonstone circlets, and one white-clad baby. Twenty-one... Three sets of seven. Three Bloodlines. Seven Shining Ones. Seven bells. Seven Daughters of the Clayr. Coincidence? Neryl had Seen too much to believe in coincidence.

Neryl moved to stand beside Penemue, her younger sister by a year. It was still difficult to believe that Pen was married to the King. The two sisters had been close in their youth, raised by their grandmother while their mother was living in Belisaere and causing scandal. Neryl had always been able to count upon her to help watch over their younger sisters. Strange that sweet, gentle Pen had been chosen to succeed her mother as Clayr and had become the Queen instead. Stranger still that Neryl, stronger by far in the Sight, had forsaken her place for a life no better than a beggar's, but was now the Voice of the Clayr. No matter how they tried, it seemed that they had been set upon different paths since birth. What was it that Cassiel had written in that remarkable book? _Does the walker choose the path, or the path the walker?_

"Here he comes," Penemue murmured, and Neryl looked up to see Dantalion emerging from the tunnel in the Wall. Beside him was a broad-shouldered, bearded man dressed in black and silver. Chief Minister Tralusan.

"Easy, Farelle."

Neryl glanced over at her eldest niece, and saw Captain Javen rest his left hand – the real one – on the Crown Princess' shoulder. Beyond them, Andromis was muttering something to Lady Zavebe.

Felio and Nehima had made it to the Wall with Ghidreth walking between them. A change seemed to come over the Wallmakers standing at the bottom of the Wall. Neryl could almost see the energy rising from them. They were nervous and excited and afraid and thrilled. And ready.

Dantalion and the Chief Minister reached their group, and Neryl maintained a civil manner as she greeted the Minister on behalf of the Clayr. Cassiel followed suit. Neryl couldn't help but observe that Tralusan's advisors were exchanging glares with the Clayr and Royal Family, but they weren't entirely to blame. The pre-dawn atmosphere was so charged with tension already, and the clouds of Charter marks casting light over all seemed to make the Ancelstierrans even more uncomfortable.

A slight murmuring arose from the spectators as the door to the Wallmaker's hut creaked open and Kibeth dramatically emerged. She glanced over at the Abhorsen's servant, who was scowling, and trotted over to the group, the dwarf following sulkily.

Tralusan stared at the dog, then the dwarf, and turned to Dantalion with a scornful smile on his face. "Is this some kind of joke?" he demanded, and Neryl could hear the laughter in his voice.

"What's wrong?" asked Kibeth with a doggy grin. "Have you never seen a short albino man before?" The Abhorsen's servant hissed.

Tralusan's mouth dropped open, and some of his advisors gasped. But to the Minister's credit he recovered from his surprise quickly. "Witchery," he said to Dantalion. "I have seen this done before in public houses over a bottle of ale. Illusions, throwing voices. I think you've taken this joke far enough."

"It is not a joke!" Kibeth burst out. "But I do know the one about the man who went to see a Healer with a chicken on his head." Neryl heard a couple of her nieces laugh, and she quelled them with a general warning glance at the group.

Tralusan was looking deeply affronted and Dantalion stepped in quickly. "I apologize, Chief Minister, for Kibeth's behaviour. Alas I am not responsible for the Shining One's sense of humour."

The delegation from Ancelstierre turned as one to gape at the dog like a many-headed monster. "This is a Shining One," Tralusan stated flatly.

"Yes."

"And the dwarf?"

Cassiel stepped forward. "He is the Eighth Shiner who was bound to serve the Charter, Chief Minister."

The bearded man threw up his hands. "And I suppose that baby is Belgaer?" Isodell scowled and held her daughter closer.

"Belgaer is preparing himself inside the Wallmaker's hut," said Kibeth. "He and I and Ghidreth had a nice chat." She turned to Dantalion and bent her front leg in what was unmistakeably a bow. "By your leave, Your Majesty."

Dantalion nodded, and Kibeth snuck a mischievous glance at the Ancelstierre delegation. She appeared to be blurring at the edges, dissolving, swelling, and finally dramatically ballooning out into her large form. Gasps arose from the delegation, and the protesters stopped their chanting and dropped their signs to stare in wonder. Kibeth was larger than a carthorse. Liquid fire blazed over her black coat, and red flames flickered in her mouth. She wagged her tail, showering yellow sparks all over the ground. As she trotted over to the Wall, Neryl could swear that the ground shook beneath her giant paws.

In the ensuing hush, Cassiel turned to the King and bowed. "By your leave, my King."

At Dantalion's signal the Abhorsen knelt down and let his hand hover over the dwarf's red belt. "Remember your promise to the Wallmaker. You will do your part."

"Yes, Abhorsen," the little albino said mockingly. Cassiel sighed, gave a shrug, and removed the belt. The red leather dissolved in his hands, tiny Charter marks streaming through his fingers like dust and fading away. There was a flash of brilliant light, and when Neryl could look again she saw a column of white fire that swirled into a human-like shape. The thing that used to be Mogget looked pointedly at the stunned Ancelstierre delegation before flowing over to the Wall after Kibeth.

It was so quiet that Neryl could hear snatches of conversation from the other side of the Wall. Then a shadow emerged from the Wallmaker's hut. It was the figure of a man, impossible tall and graceful, bending almost double to pass through the doorway. The inky-black body seemed to be cut from the night sky, but the ends of his long arms faded into cloudy smoke, and an unearthly aura of green surrounded him. His feet trailed black mist as he approached the group.

"Well met, Belgaer," said the King, inclining his crowned head. Tralusan was looking up – up – up at where the Shining One's face would have been. Neryl imagined what they must seem to Belgaer. An insignificant crowd of faces green-lit by his aura and staring up at him.

"Astarael and Ranna are on the west end of the Wall," he said in a booming voice that shook Neryl to the bones. He looked from person to person. "Who among you is it that questions my will?"

Neryl looked at Tralusan, who was licking his lips and saying nothing. It was Cassiel who plucked up the courage to speak. "Belgaer, this is Chief Minister Tralusan of Ancelstierre. He was concerned that you were perhaps being – er – _forced_ to participate in the completion of the Wall." The young man gave a small shrug as if to acknowledge how ridiculous that was, and Neryl had to agree that it _was_ ridiculous. Standing here in the presence of a Bright Shiner, it was impossible to imagine him doing anything against his will.

Belgaer turned to Tralusan, who flinched. "Know that I chose this path." The Chief Minister nodded weakly, unable to reply. "I thank the Wallmakers for this opportunity," the Thinker continued, addressing the group at large. "And I charge you all to _remember_."

The word drove itself into Neryl's brain; she knew that she would never forget this day.

As Belgaer drifted to the Wall, Dantalion turned to Tralusan. "Do I have your leave to continue, Chief Minister?" he asked. The words were a mere formality, but Tralusan gave his permission to continue. Neryl, Cassiel, Vichael, and the King and Queen escorted him and his delegation to the tunnel, and watched them returned to Ancelstierre.

Meanwhile, the Wallmakers had been spacing themselves along the top of the Wall, taking up positions at places marked with chalk. Ghidreth ascended a rough wooden ladder and was pulled onto the top of the Wall by helping hands. It was as Neryl had Seen it, years ago in a cave of ice, the briefest flicker of vision when Mosrael had given the Clayr his power. Felio and Nehima ensured that everyone was in their place before ascending the Wall themselves, and the scaffolding was removed by the Guards.

They waited.

Everyone watched as the Wallmakers stood, tall and proud, stationed fifty paces apart. There had to be thousands of them, perhaps tens of thousands, to stretch along the Wall from east to western sea. Belgaer, Yrael, and Kibeth stood at the end, with Ghidreth, Felio, and Nehima. Waiting. The sky, once so black, was noticeably grey. Torches, candles, and Charter marks were slowly being extinguished. There was a restless stirring in the surrounding forest. The world was waking up.

In the pre-dawn gloom, Neryl held her breath as if in the presence of something sacred. Beside her, Cassiel stirred. "I wish my father could have seen this," he whispered.

Dantalion glanced at the Abhorsen. "I know what you mean." Penemue smiled sadly at Neryl as they thought of their mother.

They waited.

The sun rose over the ocean in the east – the signal!

Charter marks flowed from Belgaer in a golden font, streaming down into the Wall. Yrael, and then Kibeth, began casting marks in a raging torrent so that their bodies were almost obscured by the marks. Ghidreth reached out with a gnarled hand and placed it on Kibeth's flank. Instantly they connected, and the Charter marks flowed from the Shiner to the Wallmaker and down into the stones.

Ghidreth raised her left arm and held out her palm. Fifty paces away Felio did the same, then Nehima, on and on and on. Charter marks overflowed in a wave, golden lines of light connecting the Wallmakers' outstretched hands, flashing east to west with the rising sun.

Neryl reached out blindly and grabbed Cassiel's hand. The man's nails were digging into her flesh, but she said nothing. It was building. It was coming. And then...

A blinding flash of light, painfully radiant, a dazzling glare, made her throw up her arms to shield her eyes. All around her were shouts of surprise. She had Seen it. She was living it. Telling herself to have courage, she lowered her arms and cracked open her eyes. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks as she looked into the burning light, but she forced herself to watch, to watch the Wallmakers fading away, evaporating, vanishing, as all of their being was poured into the Wall.

The light went out. It was done. They were gone.

Neryl found herself standing in the early morning light before the Wall. The sun had risen. "The stones," Penemue whispered. Neryl followed her sister. "They are _alive_," said the Queen, reaching out with her hand but not touching the surface, under which they could see the multitudinous Charter marks twisting, turning, and sliding in constant rearrangement.

"I did not feel any deaths," said Cassiel in a low voice, coming up behind them. "Neither did Vichael."

Neryl looked to the King for guidance, but he was staring at the end of the Wall where a dog and a dwarf were jumping down. The world was silent. Then a bird sang.

As if on a signal, everyone burst out talking, from the Royal guards to the protesters to the people who had camped out to witness this historic event. The babble swelled to a delighted roar. People were clapping and cheering, strangers were kissing strangers, and from the other side of the Wall came an answering elated clamour. "They did it," gasped Penemue, and Neryl embraced her sister. The rest of the Clayr were drawing near, running, and soon they were lost in a crowd of friends and family.

As the day wore on, however, and the rest of the Kingdom continued to celebrate, the members of the Bloodlines grew sombre. There was less smiling among them as they quietly prepared to go, and Neryl looked around at the faces dearest to her. The Royal Family would go back to the Palace, and Cassiel Abhorsen and his son would go back to their House. They must all return to their respective work. For Cassiel and his son there were necromancers to stop, Dead to put to rest, and one of the Greater Dead to find. For the Royal Family, there was the interminable task of guiding a Kingdom that was still young into its future. And for Neryl and her family, there were visions to be Seen, prophecies to be made, and the icy halls of the Glacier to wander. Home.

Someone tapped Neryl on the shoulder, and she turned to see young Vichael. Beyond him, Cassiel was preoccupied with readying their two horses for travel. "We're going soon," said the youth. Neryl nodded. This boy wanted to ask her something, and she waited with patience. "You're the Voice of the Clayr," he was saying awkwardly, rubbing at the back of his neck. "I couldn't help but wonder... will people remember the Wallmakers, like Belgaer told us to? Or will they one day look at the Wall and wonder how it got there? Because if that's what the future holds, then it's not fair. Those Wallmakers, thousands of them, giving up their – their lives, to –" He stopped and shook his head, unable to articulate his thoughts.

Neryl looked at him sadly. Music reached her ears, and she scrutinized the celebrating crowd. Her eyes finally landed on the bard she had noticed earlier. He was strumming his harp and humming a tune, watched by his young apprentice._ A ring of children dancing around a Charter Stone – and another – and another. Overlapping images, flashes, visions of children for years and years, stretching on for countless generations, dancing around the stones and singing a song which blended together despite the shifting accents of different regions and eras..._

Neryl came out of her vision, and the voices of the children faded from her ears to unify with the words being sung by the bard. She smiled.

"Lady Clayr?" Vichael was looking at her in concern. The other Clayr were waving from their wagon train and calling that it was time to leave.

Neryl turned back to Vichael. "Yes," she said. "The Wallmakers will be remembered."

She moved to join her family on the wagon, and Gressa shook the rains and clicked her tongue. They set off along the dirt road that led to the port, from which they would take a ship north, and home. Neryl listened to the bard. And over the rattle of the wheels she could hear him sing:

"Five Great Charters knit the land,

Together linked, hand in hand.

One in the people who wear the crown,

Two in the folk who keep the Dead down.

Three and Five became stone and mortar,

Four sees all in frozen water."

**The End.**

_A/N: It has been quite a journey, hasn't it? (Cameo in this chapter by rockster­_11, the bard's apprentice described as a youngster sitting on a rock – get it? Ah, I crack myself up...)_

_I owe huge thanks to everyone who reviewed for your encouragement, compliments, complaints, suggestions, questions, corrections, digressions, criticisms, witticisms, insight, foresight, hindsight, and jokes. You guys have been fabulous. For my own curiosity, and to improve my writing, I'd love to hear from you all. Tell me about your favourite moments/ descriptions/ characters, or anything that you believe needs improvement. Writing this story has been a wonderful experience for me, with its ups and downs. Again, thank you all for reading, and I hope that your patience and dedication have been rewarded._


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